Nest of Spies, by Pierre Souvestre and Marcel Allain 1

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Nest of Spies, by Pierre Souvestre

and Marcel Allain
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Title: A Nest of Spies

Author: Pierre Souvestre Marcel Allain

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Language: English

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Nest of Spies, by Pierre Souvestre and Marcel Allain 2

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A NEST OF

SPIES ***

Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Suzanne Shell, and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

THE FANTÔMAS DETECTIVE NOVELS

A NEST OF

SPIES

BY

PIERRE SOUVESTRE

AND

MARCEL ALLAIN

AUTHORS OF "FANTÔMAS," "THE EXPLOITS OF JUVE,"

"MESSENGERS OF EVIL," ETC.

NEW YORK

BRENTANO'S

1917

Copyright, 1917, by Brentano's

*****

CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE 3

CHAPTER PAGE

I. SUDDEN DEATH 1

II. DOCUMENT NO. SIX 13

III. BARON NAARBOVECK'S HOUSE 26

IV. A CORDIAL RECEPTION 35

V. THEY ARE NOT AGREED 43

VI. CORPORAL VINSON 51

VII. THE SECOND BUREAU 65

VIII. A SINGER OF THE HALLS 77

IX. WITH THE UNDER-SECRETARY OF STATE 88

X. AUNT PALMYRA 96

XI. THE HOODED CLOAK OF FANTÔMAS 104

XII. A TRICK ACCORDING TO FANDOR 115

XIII. JUVE'S STRATAGEM 122

XIV. BEFORE A TOMB 130

XV. THE TRAITOR'S APPRENTICESHIP 138

XVI. AT THE ELYSÉE BALL 149

XVII. IN THE STRONGHOLD OF THE ENEMY 158

CHAPTER PAGE 4

XVIII. IN THE NAME OF THE LAW! 162

XIX. THE MYSTERIOUS ABBÉ 171

XX. MAN OR WOMAN 180

XXI. A CORDIAL UNDERSTANDING 187

XXII. HAVE THEY BOLTED? 195

XXIII. LONDON AND PARIS 204

XXIV. AN APPETISER AT ROBERT'S BAR 212

XXV. THE ARREST 218

XXVI. WILHELMINES'S SECRET 225

XXVII. THE TWO VINSONS 232

XXVIII. AT "THE CRYING CALF" 240

XXIX. "I AM TROKOFF" 246

XXX. APPALLING ACCUSATIONS 260

XXXI. A CARAVAN DRAMA 271

XXXII. FREE AND PRISONER 281

XXXIII. RECONCILIATION 292

XXXIV. A FANTÔMAS TRICK 298

XXXV. AT THE COUNCIL OF WAR 309

CHAPTER PAGE 5

XXXVI. AMBASSADOR! 320

*****

A NEST OF SPIES

SUDDEN DEATH

She sought in vain!

The young woman, who was finishing her toilette, lost patience. With a
look of annoyance she half turned round, crying, "Well, Captain, it is easy
to see that you are not accustomed to women's ways!"

This pretty girl's lover, a man about forty, with an energetic countenance,
and a broad forehead adorned with sparse locks, was smoking a Turkish
cigarette, taking his ease on a divan at the far end of the room.

He jumped up as if moved by a spring.

For some time the captain had followed with his eyes the gestures of his
graceful mistress; like a good and attentive lover he guessed what she
required. He rushed into the adjoining dressing-room and returned with a
little onyx cup in which was a complete assortment of pins.

"There, my pretty Bobinette!" he cried, coming up to the young woman.

"This will put me into your good graces again."

She thanked him with a smile; took the needed pins from the cup, and
quietly finished dressing.

Bobinette was a red-haired beauty.

CHAPTER PAGE 6

The thick braids of her abundant tresses, with their natural waves and curls,
fell to where the lines of neck and shoulders meet, their tawny hues
enhancing the milky whiteness of her plump flesh. This young creature was
of the true Rubens type.

It was half past three in the afternoon of a dull November day. A kind of
twilight was darkening the ground floor flat in the quiet rue de Lille, where
the two lovers were together.

For some months now Captain Brocq had been on intimate terms with this
intoxicating young person, who answered to the nickname "Bobinette." Her
features, though irregular, were pleasing. Sprung from the people,
Bobinette had tried to remedy this by becoming a past mistress of postures,
of attitudes. Like others of her kind, from her very childhood she had
learned to adapt herself to whatever company she was in, picking up almost
intuitively those shades of taste, of tact, which can transform the most
unconsidered daughter of the people into the most fastidious of Parisiennes.

It was the contrary as regards Captain Brocq, an artillery staff-officer and

attached to the Ministry of War. Notwithstanding his intellectual capacities
and his professional worth, so highly valued by his chiefs, he always
remained the man of humble origin, somewhat gauche, timid, who was
evidently better fitted to be at the head of a battery on the bastions of a
fortress than frequenting the gossipy clubs of officials or society
drawing-rooms. Brocq, who had passed out of the Military Academy
exceedingly well, had been given an important post recently: a confidential
appointment at the Ministry of War. During the first years of his military
life Brocq had been entirely preoccupied by his profession. Of a truth, as
pretty Bobinette had just told him, he was not at all "a man accustomed to
women." This was why, when verging on forty, his heart, as young, as fresh
as a student's, had suddenly caught fire when he happened to meet
Bobinette.

Who was this woman?

CHAPTER PAGE 7

Brocq could not place her with that mathematical exactitude dear to his
scientific mind. She puzzled this honest man, who fell deeper and deeper in
love with her. Whenever they met, and their first tender effusions were
over, the lovers exchanged ideas, and always on the same subject.

*****

Bobinette had completed her toilet. In leisurely fashion she came over to
her lover and seated herself beside him. Brocq, who was thinking deeply,
remained silent.

"What are you thinking about?" Bobinette suddenly asked, in a chaffing

tone. "Have you solved a new problem, or are you thinking of a dark
woman?"

Brocq smiled. Amorously he put his arm round the girl's supple figure;
drawing her to him, and burying his lips in her abundant and perfumed hair,
he murmured tenderly:

"I am thinking of the future, of our future."

"Good gracious me!" replied Bobinette, withdrawing herself from his arms.
"You are not going to bore me again with your ideas of marriage?"

The captain made a movement of protestation; but Bobinette went on:

"No, no, old dear, no chains for me! No gag, no muzzle for me! We are
both independent, let us remain so! Free! Long live liberty!"

Brocq now got in a word: "In the first place," he said, "you know quite well
you would do a very stupid thing if you married me; I have not the usual
dowry, far from it! Then I am not of your world. Can you see me in a
drawing-room, playing my tricks with the colonel's wife, the general's wife,
with the whole blessed lot of them? Zut! I am just what I am, just
Bobinette."...
CHAPTER PAGE 8

Brocq now got in a word: "In the first place," he observed, "as regards the
dowry, you know very well, my pretty Bobinette, that I have already taken
steps about it, on your behalf--now don't protest! It gives me pleasure to
make your future safe, as far as I can: a modest competence. On the other
hand, I am not a society man, and if you wish it."...

The captain drew nearer his mistress and brushed her lips with his
moustache.

Bobinette drew back, got up from the divan, stood in front of her lover,
erect, arms crossed, her look sullen: "No, I tell you, I wish to be free, my
own mistress."...

Brocq grew impatient: "But in spite of your ideas of independence, my poor

darling, you are always in a state of servitude! Why, only to give one
example, for the last two years you have been content to occupy an inferior
position in the house of this Bavarian diplomat--or Austrian--I don't know
what he is?"

"Naarboveck?" asked Bobinette, surprised. "But don't imagine that I am the

Baron de Naarboveck's servant: still, if it were otherwise, I can't play proud.
I can't bring out the title-deeds and pedigree of my ancestors for
inspection!"

"It's not a question of that," observed Brocq.

Bobinette had launched forth. She continued:

"But that is the question. You are always imagining that I have things given
me to do which lower me. I have told you a hundred times how it was I
went to the Naarboveck's. One day the poor man came to the hospital: he
was almost beside himself. His daughter Wilhelmine, who is barely
nineteen, had just been taken ill--it was typhoid fever--he was obliged to go
away and leave her--not a soul in whose care he could leave the child with
confidence. I was recommended to Naarboveck. I came, I nursed
Wilhelmine. This went on for a month, then for two, then three--now we
CHAPTER PAGE 9

are the best friends in the world. Wilhelmine is a girl whom I love with all
my heart; the baron is an amiable man, all kindness and attention.... It is
true that I am now a kind of companion, in an 'inferior' position, as you
choose to put it in your absurdly vain and jealous way of looking at things;
but, my dear man, there are ways and ways, and I assure you I am treated as
one of the family. And, besides, you ought to consider that it was precisely
at the Naarboveck receptions we met."

With the utterance of these last words Bobinette glanced at Captain Brocq
as if she would annihilate him: the remembrance of their first meeting
seemed more odious to her than pleasing.

Brocq, whose eyes were obstinately lowered, saw nothing of this. He

suggested: "I am not the only one you have met at M. de Naarboveck's.
There is that handsome cuirassier, Henri de Loubersac."...

Bobinette crimsoned. She shrugged her shoulders. "How stupid you are!
Lieutenant Henri does not give me a thought, if he comes to the house."...

Brocq interrupted: "Yes, I know he comes on account of the fair

Wilhelmine." His tone was conciliatory. Once more he drew Bobinette to
him; but she seemed to object more and more strongly to the captain's
caresses. Glancing at a clock on the mantelpiece she cried: "Why, it is four
o'clock! High time I should leave."

Brocq, who had followed her glance, added, suddenly serious: "My faith! I
must call at the Ministry!"

Both rose. Bobinette took up her hat and went to the looking-glass. Brocq
exchanged his jacket for a black coat. He went into his study, separated
from the other room by a heavy curtain.

"Bobinette!" he called.

That young person responded to his call, but with no show of haste. She
found the captain seated before his bureau rummaging in an immense
CHAPTER PAGE 10

drawer crammed full of papers.

"You know, my little Bobinette, that I have made you my sole legatee,"
cried the captain, with an adoring look at the pretty girl who suddenly
appeared in the doorway. He continued his search among his papers: they
were in great disorder.

"I wished to show you--it's a question of spelling your name correctly. You
are called Berthe, are you not?"

The girl had come forward. She quickly caught sight of a mauve sheet of
paper on the blotting-pad. A few lines were traced on it.

"Ah! you wretch!" she cried, while she glanced through the words. She
pretended to be angry. "I've caught you! You were writing to a woman! Ho,
it starts well:

"'My own darling adored one, how long the hours seem when I await.'"...

Captain Brocq shouted with laughter.

"Ah, here's a joke! Why, it is you who are jealous now!"

Bobinette questioned him with a look. He explained:

"But, you great idiot, don't you understand that I was writing to you, and
that only a couple of hours ago! You know I am always afraid you will not
come to our meeting-place, and you are always late!"

Bobinette, reassured, now helped Brocq to go through his drawer

methodically.

There could be no doubt of it--the captain was a most untidy man. Family
letters, papers covered with figures, handwritten military documents, even
some bank-notes, were jumbled together in great disorder.
CHAPTER PAGE 11

Bobinette noticed her own handwriting on some sheets of paper. How well
she knew them!

She feigned anger. "It is abominable to compromise me like this!" she

cried. "See! My letters! Love letters! Intimate letters lying about like this!
No, decidedly!"...

Brocq put her right. "No, no, my pet! Your precious letters are most
carefully preserved by me--put together--see--there they are--there are not
many of them--but not one is missing!"

"You are sure of that?"

"I swear it."

Bobinette reflected. The captain, however, returned to the adjoining room,

hoping to come across the deed of gift he had set his mind on finding.
"Come with me, Bobe!" he called. He opened a little writing desk. He
thought his mistress had followed him, but she had remained in the study.

"Bobinette!" he called again, astonished to find himself alone.

She lingered.

Brocq went back.

He collided with the girl who, with a furtive gesture, slipped something into
her muff.

"Well," said he.

"Well, what now?" she retorted.

They gazed at each other for a moment in silence.

"What were you doing?" questioned Brocq suspiciously.

CHAPTER PAGE 12

"Nothing," answered Bobinette coldly.

But the captain caught hold of her hands. He was uneasy, almost angry:
"Tell me!"

The red-haired beauty jumped back with a defiant air: "Very well, then! I
have taken my letters, they belong to me! I wish to have them! It disgusts
me to think that they are left lying about your rooms. Do you think it funny
that your orderly should read them to his country-woman? That your
concierge should know all about them? I declare men like you have not a
scrap of tact, of nice feeling!"

"Bobinette!" the captain implored her.

"No, no; and again, no!" cried the girl more and more angrily. "I have them.
I keep them!"

The captain grew pale. She added, a little more gently:

"But, you great stupid, they are of no importance! I'll give them back to you
later--when you are good. You are behaving like a schoolboy! Come, kiss
me! Tell your little Bobe that you are not angry with her! If you don't I
shall cry!"

Already she was beginning to sob, and great tears were dropping. Captain
Brocq, struck dumb, gazed at her sorrowfully. And whilst he clasped her in
his arms, anxiety strained at his heart, anguish convulsed his soul. Did she
really love him, this woman with her whimsical ways, her independent
attitude, this elusive woman who never gave herself entirely? Was he the
dupe of a comedy? Did she consent to these meetings three times a week
through pity, through sympathy only, or through habit, or, worse still, for
some mercenary reason? And this when he himself would have given up
everything so that he might not miss them! Ah, if that were the truth! The
captain felt an immense void opening in the depths of his lonely soul. He
apologised in a low voice, hurriedly, with bent head, humbly, and Bobinette
listened with curled lip and haughty air: She bore no malice, she declared.
CHAPTER PAGE 13

Then, a few moments later, for she was really much upset and did not wish
to show it, she hurried away, dropping a hasty kiss on her lover's forehead
as a token of peace. How ardently he wished that this peace might last.

"I am very much behind time," she had murmured by way of farewell.

Directly his mistress had gone, Brocq went to the window, watched her
turn the corner of the rue de Lille, enter the rue des Saints-Pères, and go
towards the quays. While he watched her he was trembling. A roll of paper
was sticking out of Bobinette's muff. Brocq knew this paper: its appearance
and colour were familiar to him. Nevertheless, his mind was so full of his
love affair that he immediately forgot this detail. But, in a minute, the turn
of events forced him to recall it.

"In Heaven's Name!" shouted Captain Brocq, as a violent blow from his
clenched fist made the scattered papers on his bureau tremble. "By Heaven!
It is impossible!"

When he found himself alone, sadly alone in his little flat, Brocq saw it was
five o'clock, and more than time to start for the Ministry of War. Hastily
putting on overcoat and hat, he had hurried into his study to look for the big
leather portfolio he always carried when taking his work from the office to
his own home.

Owing to his special knowledge of fortress artillery Brocq had been

requested to put the finishing touches to a confidential report on the
defences of the eastern forts of Paris and the distribution of the effective
forces of the companies of mechanics in time of mobilisation. He had
searched feverishly in his drawers for this report, which was of no great
bulk. For the last ten minutes he had anxiously searched, but in vain: he
could not find a trace of it!

"It is impossible!" he cried. He swore aloud as if the better to convince

himself. "The title is in big letters, 'Confidential,' in red, and twice
underlined. Oh, it is quite impossible that it should pass under my eyes
unperceived!"
CHAPTER PAGE 14

Again the distracted man ransacked his papers and shook his portfolio.
Almost beside himself with exasperation, he cried: "My excellent
Bobinette, by her rummaging, has put the finishing touch to this confusion.
Heaven knows, it was bad enough before!"

He paused. Anguish seized him. He fell into an arm-chair, while drops of

sweat broke out on his forehead. Suddenly he had remembered the roll of
papers sticking out of Bobinette's muff. He uttered a cry: "My God! But
supposing!"... He did not put the rest of his thought into words. For an
instant he had the idea that through thoughtlessness, by mistake, an
involuntary one assuredly, his mistress had taken this document to wrap up
her letters ... without suspecting. That was it! No doubt she had carried off
with her this secret plan of mobilisation--but if the plan got lost? If it were
dropped in the street!

Brocq cursed his untidy ways once more. He would never forgive himself
for having allowed that girl to ransack his drawers--but he must act, and at
once! He must, without fail, find that mislaid document. Of one thing he
was sure--the document was not on the premises. Brocq jumped up.
"Good-day, Captain!"

*****

"Good-day, Captain!"

The man in charge at the cabstand, on the quay des Saints-Pères, at the
corner of the bridge, saluted Brocq cordially.

Brocq, ghastly pale, his face showing signs of intense anxiety, gasping for
breath, asked: "Tell me! Just now, ten, five minutes ago--did you not see a
lady--young--she had red hair--did she not pass this way? Come now!"

The cabstand than winked. "My faith, Captain, you are just in time. Only a
moment ago a lady, such as you describe, but prettier than that, got into a
taxi; she."...
CHAPTER PAGE 15

"Ah!" interrupted the captain, "do you know what address she gave?"

"Why, yes I do. I was almost touching her when she spoke to the driver."...

"Well?"

"Faith, what she said was 'Take me to the Bois,' and the cab turned by the
Saints-Pères bridge. Probably it went by the Tuileries quay after."

"The number? The number of this taxi?"

"Why, we will ask the policeman at the kiosque: he has certainly entered it,
as usual."

Stamping with impatience inside a landaulet whose hood he had had

lowered that he might more easily see around him, Brocq had rushed off in
pursuit of Bobinette's taxi, 249--B.Z.

Shaking from head to foot, Brocq held in a tight grip his leather portfolio,
which contained all the documents he wished to lay before the Ministry of
War, less, alas! the mislaid plan of the eastern forts. He scrutinised the
Place de la Concorde, the Avenue des Champs-Elysées. He was asking
himself why Bobinette, after telling him she must hurry away, had driven to
the Bois as if she were one of the leisured crowd? This troubled the lover in
him as well as the soldier. Why had he rushed after his mistress in this
fashion? What definite reason had he? After all, it was exceedingly
improbable, surely, that she had carried away this document without
noticing it, for it was composed of three or four large sheets of paper!... In
that case, she must have lost it before getting into the taxi. As to supposing
for an instant that she had taken it away intentionally--Brocq would not
suppose it. Why should he? There was nothing to lead him to think.

But, all the same!...

All the same, the captain had a presentiment, a conviction, an instinctive

certainty that, at all costs he must overtake Bobinette--he absolutely must.
CHAPTER PAGE 16

Why?

Brocq could not have said why. He did not reason about it. He felt: a
feeling as indefinable as it was irresistible drove him to pursue, to continue
the chase at top speed.

Again and again he had shouted to the astonished chauffeur, who was
driving his taxi as fast as the crowded street permitted: "Get on! In the
devil's name, go faster--faster!"

Night was falling. The close of this November day was particularly
beautiful. Behind the Arc de Triomphe a broad band of red on the horizon
reflected the setting sun in its winter glory. The breeze was wafting the last
red-brown leaves from the trees, turning them over and over before they
fell on the autumnal greensward and the black earth of the empty
flower-beds.

Rows of carriages were moving towards the Étoile. As they had cleared the
Rond-Point of the Champs-Elysées Brocq uttered a cry of joy. Some fifty
yards away his keen eye had caught sight of Bobinette's taxi: he had
identified the number.

"There it is!"

He urged the chauffeur to follow it up closely, regardless of consequences.

"A moment more and we shall have caught up the 249," said Brocq to
himself. His landaulet was gaining ground.

The crowd of vehicles, the police holding them up where the roads
intersected, impeded the advance. Brocq, wild with impatience, could not
keep still. At last they reached the Place de l'Étoile. The carriages,
conforming to rule, rounded the monument on the right, going more and
more slowly owing to the increased crush. But the captain felt relieved;
only one cab, drawn by a horse, now separated him from Bobinette's taxi,
and assuredly her vehicle and his would be abreast, side by side at the entry
CHAPTER PAGE 17

to the avenue of the Bois de Boulogne.

Brocq loved Bobinette dearly, but frankly, if for a joke or inadvertently she
had carried off the document, he would give her a piece of his mind. He
would let her know that it would not do to play tricks with things of that
sort. Nevertheless, his heart was wrung with anxiety.

Supposing Bobinette had noticed nothing--if the document had fallen in the
street?

Suddenly the poor fellow saw Bobinette's taxi cut across the line of
carriages to the right and turn into the Avenue de la Grand-Armée.

Brocq's chauffeur did not seem to have noticed this: he continued in the
direction of the Bois de Boulogne.

"Oh, you idiot!" shouted the captain. And, in order to give his instructions
as rapidly as possible, he leaned almost entirely out of the vehicle.

*****

But a second or two had passed when the chauffeur stopped dead, that he
might see what had happened to his fare. Something must have happened,
for Brocq had abruptly stopped short in the midst of his directions. He had
collapsed on the cushions of the taxi, and remained motionless.

Other vehicles surrounded the automobile. Some ladies passing in a victoria

noticed the captain.

"Look, my dear," exclaimed one of them, "do you see how pale that man
is? He seems to be ill!"...

At the same moment, the pedestrians were struck by the officer's strange
attitude. Brocq had suddenly subsided in a heap on the cushion, his head
had fallen to one side, his mouth was open, his eyes were closed: he
seemed to have fainted.
CHAPTER PAGE 18

A crowd gathered at once.

The chauffeur got down, shook his fare by the arm, and the arm was inert.

The crowd increased.

"A doctor!" cried a voice. "It is plain that this man is ill!"

A man stepped out from the crowd. His hair was white, he wore a
decoration ribbon, and he had descended from a private brougham. With an
air of authority he made his way through the curious onlookers, and when a
constable came forward he said: "Kindly make these people stand away. I
am Professor Barrell of the School of Medicine."

There was a murmur of respectful sympathy among the onlookers, for the
professor was famous.

This master of medicine with a sure hand had undone the collar, the cravat
of the mysterious sufferer, half opened his overcoat, put his ear to the
patient's heart, then, straightening himself, considered the face attentively,
not without a certain amount of stupefaction.

The constable made a suggestion: "Had we not better take this individual to
a chemist's?"

Professor Barrell replied in a low voice: "To a chemist's? Do so if you wish

... but it is useless ... you would do better to go to the police-station: this
unfortunate man is dead--it is a case of sudden death." The medical man
added some technical words which this guardian of the peace did not
understand.

II

DOCUMENT NUMBER SIX

"Hullo!... Am I speaking to Headquarters of Police?"

CHAPTER PAGE 19

"Yes?"

"To the sergeant?... Good!... It is the superintendent of the Wagram Quarter

who is telephoning.... They have just brought here the body of an officer
who has died suddenly, Place de l'Étoile, and I want you to send me one of
your inspectors.... This officer was the bearer of important documents.... I
must send them direct to the military authorities.... Hullo!... Good.... You
will send me someone immediately?... An inspector will be here in ten
minutes?... Splendid!... Very good!"

The superintendent hung up the telephone receiver and turned to the

policeman, who stood motionless awaiting orders. He was visibly
embarrassed.

The police superintendent of the Wagram Quarter was a man of decisive

action. He possessed in the highest degree the quality, the most precious of
all for those of the police force, whose functions call them to intervene
continually in the most surprising adventures--presence of mind.

A few minutes before this the taxi with its tragic burden had stopped at his
police-station, and the men on duty had carried in the body of the
unfortunate captain.

Called in all haste, the sergeant had immediately made a rapid

investigation. He examined the documents in the victim's portfolio.

"Here's a go!" he muttered--"'State of munition supplies!' 'Orders for the

eastern fortresses!' I do not want to keep such important documents longer
than I can help."

He had immediately telephoned to Headquarters. Reassured by the

sergeant's reply, the superintendent turned to the policeman.

"You have made out your report?" he asked curtly.

CHAPTER PAGE 20

The honest guardian of the peace touched his cap, looked perplexed, and
scratched his head.

"Not yet, Monsieur. No time, Monsieur. But I will write it out at once."

The superintendent smiled at his embarrassed subordinate. "Suppose we do

it together!"

"Let us see now! The deceased was a captain--isn't that so? The papers
found in his portfolio and the name written on it let us know that he was
called Brocq, and that he was attached to the Ministry. So much for his
identity. We will not trouble about his domicile, the Place will tell us that!
Now let us go into the details of the accident--tell me, my man, exactly how
his death occurred!"

Again the worthy guardian of the peace scratched his head with an anxious
look.

"I saw nothing of it, Monsieur," he replied.

"And the taxi-driver? You have his deposition?"

"He did not see anything either, Monsieur."

"Call this chauffeur."

A few minutes after, the superintendent dismissed the chauffeur. A short

interrogation revealed that the taxi-driver had not only seen nothing, but
that he could do nothing to help the enquiry.

The superintendent recalled the honest policeman.

"Come now! You are certain that the victim died immediately?"

"Well, you see, Monsieur, while I was dispersing the crowd, a doctor came
up, and it was he who told me how the dead man died!"
CHAPTER PAGE 21

"This doctor did not point out to you the cause of death?"

"No, Monsieur. But he gave me his card."

The policeman drew from the pocket of his tunic a dirty note-book. He took
a card from it and handed it to his chief. "There, Monsieur!"

The magistrate looked at the name. Professor Barrell, of the School of

Medicine. Turning the card, he read aloud a few words in pencil:

"Sudden death, which seems due to a phenomenon of inhibition."...

"This professor did not explain what he meant by 'death due to inhibition'?"

"No, Monsieur."

"Annoying!... I do not know what that means."

The superintendent was about to continue his enquiry when there was a
knock at his office door.

A policeman informed him respectfully: "There is an inspector, Monsieur,

from Headquarters detective department who asks to see you on urgent
business--he declares you have sent for him."

"Tell him to come in."

No sooner had this personage from "Headquarters detective department"

appeared in the doorway, than the superintendent rose, and advanced with
outstretched hands.

"You, Juve! I am delighted to see you! How are you?"

It was, in truth, the celebrated detective, Juve.

CHAPTER PAGE 22

Juve had altered but little. He was always the same man; rather thick-set,
vigorous, astonishingly alive, agile, as youthful as ever, in spite of his
moustache turning grey, in spite of his rounded shoulders which, at
moments, seemed to bend under the weight of the toils and fatigues of the
past.

This magic name evoked memories of terrible stories, stories of dangers

encountered, endured, overcome; of brave deeds; of desperate struggles
with the worst criminals.

Juve! He was the man who, for ten years, had represented to all, ability,
audacity, limitless daring! He was the man who best knew how to employ
wiles and stratagems to secure the triumph of society in the incessant
combat it had to sustain against the innumerable soldiers of the army of
crime.

*****

When the terrible Dollon affair had come to an end, Juve had been blamed
officially, and the detective could not help feeling angry and exasperated,
for, after all, if he had failed, he ought not to have been treated as a culprit.
Not a soul had had the slightest suspicion of how the affair had ended. Not
one of them knew the incredible truth--how the marvellous, the
redoubtable, the incredible Fantômas had elected to make his escape at the
very moment when Juve was preparing to put the handcuffs on him.

And the detective, disheartened, but determined not to give up the fight
against this deep-dyed criminal whom he had been pursuing for years, had
asked for a few weeks' holiday, had lain snug, then had returned to his post
at Headquarters, had made a point of keeping in the background, only
awaiting the moment when he could resume his hunt for the ruffian whom
he looked on as a personal enemy.

Since then, nothing had happened to put him on the track of Fantômas. No
crime had been committed in circumstances which could leave him to think
that this elusive murderer was involved in it.
CHAPTER PAGE 23

Our detective had begun to ask himself if, not having been fortunate
enough to arrest this king of assassins, he had not at any rate succeeded in
unmasking him, in compelling him to fly for his life, in putting him out of
power to do harm.

*****

Rapidly the superintendent put Juve in possession of the incidents which

had led him to telephone to Headquarters.

"You have done well," said Juve. "Have you the portfolio of this dead
man?"

"Here it is, my friend."

Juve opened it.

"If you will allow it, Monsieur, I am going to make a complete list of the
contents. This list I shall leave with you. I shall take a copy: that I shall
deposit at the office of the Chief of Staff, obtaining a receipt for it. This
will relieve both you and myself of all further responsibility on this head."

For some moments Juve and the superintendent occupied themselves in

going over the papers of the dead man. Suddenly the detective got up, and,
holding a paper in his hand, began walking up and down the room.

"You have read that?" he asked, turning to the superintendent.

"What is it? No."

"Read it!"

The superintendent read:

"Inventory of the documents which were submitted to me by the Second

Bureau of the Staff Headquarters, for which I have signed a receipt, and I
CHAPTER PAGE 24

have undertaken to return and deliver them up to the Second Bureau of the
Staff Headquarters, Monday, November 7th, when given a receipt to that
effect."

"Well, what of it?"

"Well," replied Juve. "Compare the documents given on this list with those
we have found in this portfolio ... they tally."...

"Of course. That only proves, I imagine, that this officer died at the very
moment when he was on the way to his office to return the papers entrusted
to him. What do you see surprising in that?"

Juve shook his head. "I see, Monsieur, that what I feared is true: yes, this is
certainly the list of documents contained in this portfolio, but."...

"But, one is missing!"

The two men checked the papers of Captain Brocq. Juve was right. There
was a document missing--Number Six.

"Whew!" murmured the superintendent. "How are we to know whether this

document has been dropped in the taxi, or has already been returned by the
captain, or whether."...

"Or whether it has been stolen from him," finished Juve.

The supposition which the detective had put into words was so grave, so
terrible, so weighty in its consequence that the superintendent cried, in a
shaking voice:

"Robbed! Robbed! But by whom? Where? How? On the way from the
Place de l'Étoile here? While the body was being brought to the police
station?... Juve, it's incredible!"
CHAPTER PAGE 25

Juve was walking up and down, up and down. "I don't like affairs of this
sort, in which officers are involved, and most particularly officers
connected with the Second Bureau of the Military Staff: they require the
most careful handling.... You never know where they will lead. These
officers are, owing to their functions, the masters of all the military
defences of France.... Confound it!"

Juve stopped short. "You had better let me see the body of this poor
fellow."

"Certainly!"...

The superintendent led Juve towards one of the rooms, where the corpse of
Captain Brocq was: it had been laid down on the floor. Pious hands had
lighted a mortuary candle, and, in view of the position held by the dead
man, two of the police staff were keeping watch and ward until someone
came to claim the body of the deceased.

Juve examined the corpse. "A fine fellow!" he said quietly.

He turned to the superintendent.

"You told me just now that Prof. Barrell chanced to be present at the
moment of death?"

"That is so."

"What did he suppose was the cause of death?"

The superintendent smiled. "Now you have it! Possibly you can throw light
on it, my dear Juve, for I could hardly make head or tail of his diagnostic.
The professor claims that death is due to a phenomenon of inhibition. What
does that mean exactly?"

Juve shrugged his shoulders.

CHAPTER PAGE 26

"Inhibition!... Peuh!... It is a learned word--very learned!"...

"Which means to say?"... pressed the superintendent.

"It does not mean anything."

Juve's tone was a mixture of contempt and anger. The superintendent was
staggered. Juve's anger increased.

"It does not mean anything," he repeated. "Inhibition! Inhibition! It is the

term reserved for deaths that are unexplained and inexplicable: it is the
term with which science covers herself when she does not wish to confess
her ignorance."

The magistrate was smiling now.

"So then, Juve, you conclude that Professor Barrell has declared that this
officer had died through inhibition because, in fact, he was ignorant of the
cause of death?"

"Exactly!" snapped Juve.

He was kneeling on the floor, bending over the body. Slowly, minutely, he
was examining it with his keen eyes, by the flickering light of the mortuary
candle.

He had examined successively the face of the dead man, then the arms, the
trunk, the shoulders, the whole body. He did not utter a word.

"What are you looking for in particular, Juve?"

"The cause of this inhibition," replied the detective, who pronounced the
word with unconcealed anger and resentment. He seemed to harbour some
subtle rancour regarding the doctor. Suddenly he got up and, turning to the
policeman, commanded:
CHAPTER PAGE 27

"Undress this body!"

The superintendent interposed.

"What for?"

"It will be useful for your report."

"Come, now! In what way?"

"For that," said Juve, pointing a finger at the officer's short coat....

"That? How that?... I don't see anything," protested the superintendent.

Juve knelt down again, and made a sign to the superintendent to do

likewise.

"Look, Monsieur! Just bend down and look at this tiny graze on the cloth."

"Yes!... Well?"

"Does that not tell you anything?"

"No it does not."

Juve rose and repeated his order. "Unclothe this corpse!"

Then, turning to the superintendent, he added:

"What that tells me is, that this man has been killed by a shot from a gun or
a revolver."

"Oh, come, now!"

"You will see."...

CHAPTER PAGE 28

"The garment is not pierced."...

Juve began to smile.

"Monsieur," said he, "you must know that arms of high penetrating power,
firing projectiles of small diameter, grooved projectiles, cause only the
slightest graze in the materials they pass through: the damage is almost
imperceptible. Numerous experiments have demonstrated this. You see the
passage of the projectile is so rapid, its gyratory movement so accelerated,
that, in some way, the threads of the fabric are not broken: they are only
pushed aside. They come together again after the passage of the ball, and
unless a very careful examination is made, one would never know that a
projectile had perforated the material."

The two policemen were undressing the corpse.

Scarcely had they undone the waistcoat than the shirt of the unfortunate
man was seen to have a spot of blood on it, in the region of the heart.

"See," cried Juve. "It is just as I said: a ball of small diameter, propelled by
a formidable power of penetration, has caused immediate death, producing
a wound which has hardly bled at all, so precise and clean has the wound
been!"

Juve again bent over the corpse.

"It is plain to see that this officer's death has been caused by a ball in the
heart, right in the centre of the heart."

The superintendent now protested:

"But what you are telling us, Juve, is terrible, it is inadmissible! How could
this person have committed suicide without having been seen in the act by
someone? Without anyone finding his revolver? And that at the very
moment when he leaned out of the window of the vehicle to give the
chauffeur his instructions?"
CHAPTER PAGE 29

Juve did not seem disposed to answer this. But, after remaining silent for a
minute or two, he took the superintendent by the arm in familiar fashion,
and drawing him away said: "Let us return to your office, I have a couple of
words to say to you."

When the superintendent and the detective had entered the room, when they
were alone together, when the detective had made sure that the double door
was shut tight, and that not a soul could hear them, Juve, his hands resting
on the writing-table, looked the superintendent straight in the face. The
latter, having seated himself in his chair, waited for the detective to speak.

Juve spoke.

"We are thoroughly agreed, Monsieur, are we not, regarding the conditions
of the accident?... This officer has been shot through the heart, when he was
crossing the Place de l'Étoile in a vehicle, and at the precise moment when
he leaned over the door of that vehicle, and this, without anyone having
seen or heard what happened?"

"Yes, Juve, that is so. This suicide is incomprehensible!"

"It is not a case of suicide, Monsieur."...

"What is it, then?"

"A crime!"

"A crime!!!"

"This man has been killed by a shot from a gun, a shot fired from a
distance. No one saw the assassin do the deed: the Place de l'Étoile was
crowded with people. It was a shot fired from a distance, because of an
important point, Monsieur. The deceased was attached to the Second
Bureau of the Ministry of War. At the time of his death he was the bearer of
important documents: one of these important documents is missing! I
assure you, Monsieur, this not only determines the fact of the crime, but
CHAPTER PAGE 30

furnishes us with the motive for that crime!"

The superintendent of police stared at Juve, speechless. At last he said:

"But it is impossible! Absolutely impossible, I tell you! What you are

inventing now is impossible!... You forget that a shot from a gun, a shot
from so powerful a weapon, makes a noise. Why, deuce take it, the
detonation must be heard!"

"No, Monsieur! There are now weapons which are perfectly silent. For
example, there are guns in which liquefied carbonic acid is used, which
fires a projectile at more than 800 yards, and all that can be heard is a sharp
snap when the projectile speeds off."...

"But, look here, Juve! Such a crime as this partakes of the nature of a
romance! The criminal must have taken aim in the midst of a crowd! Who,
do you suppose, would have been mad enough to attempt it? What
scoundrel would ever have run such a risk?"

Juve, very calm, very much master of himself, was standing in front of the
superintendent. His arms were crossed: he seemed to defy him, as though
he knew beforehand that in him he was to encounter the incredulity of the
average person.

"You ask me," replied he, "what criminal could be daring enough to do
this? What criminal would have carried out such a murder successfully?
Sir, that murderer's name is synonymous with all the maddest attempts,
with every kind of atrocity, with every species of cruelty, with all the
talents!"...

"And, it is."...

Juve suddenly stopped short, as if he were afraid of the word he was about
to pronounce.
CHAPTER PAGE 31

"By jove!" he declared, "if I knew the name of the guilty person, I would go
and arrest him!"...

*****

While the unfortunate Captain Brocq collapsed inside his carriage, mortally
struck by the mysterious shot, pretty Bobinette, who could have had no idea
of the accident to her lover, following hard in her wake, continued her
drive. She ordered her chauffeur to stop at the riding-alley which passes
behind the Chinese Pavilion.

A lingering ray of sunshine still illuminated the thickets of the Bois, but
already those out for an airing were hastening towards the city, when
Bobinette, discharging her taxi, entered the little path which runs beside the
equestrian's track.

She seemed full of the joy of life, stepping smartly along, appreciating the
pleasure of this quick, free, independent walk. Soon, however, her pace
slackened. She spied an unoccupied seat, looked at her watch, and sat
down. She cast a sharp glance towards the far end of the path.

"We are both up to time," she murmured, recognising a figure still some
distance away.

Bobinette drew from her muff a small roll of papers.

The advancing person was a seedy-looking individual, stooping, seemingly

bent under the weight of a bulky accordion. He looked about sixty; his long
white beard, untrimmed and badly neglected, disguised the lower half of his
face, while his luxuriant moustache, and his long hair, arranged artist
fashion, largely hid the upper part of his countenance.

A beggar? Not at all! This personage would most certainly have spurned
such an epithet with a gesture of offended disdain. Live by charity? Not he!
Was not his accordion there to show that he possessed a regular means of
livelihood? He claimed to be a musician.
CHAPTER PAGE 32

He was well known throughout one quarter of Paris, was this poor old man
who chanced to be passing along that path in the Bois de Boulogne. He was
a perfect specimen of the unsettled type of human being, savagely
enamoured of liberty, going from court to court playing with wearied arms
the ballads of the moment, indifferent to their melodies, to their rhythms, to
their beauties, to their ugliness.... No one knew his real name. They called
him Vagualame; for his plaintive notes inspired sad thoughts and an
indefinable trouble of the nerves in those unlucky enough to listen to him
for a time. This nickname stuck to him.

He was quite a Parisian type, this Vagualame: one of those faces at once
odd and classic, such as one comes across in numbers on the pavements,
known to all the world, without anyone knowing exactly who they are, how
they live, where they go, or whence they come....

*****

The old man had, on his side, caught sight of Bobinette. He hastened
towards her as fast as his legs permitted; and as soon as he was near enough
to speak to her without raising his voice, he questioned her:

"Well?" It was the interrogation of a master to a subordinate.

"Well?" he repeated. His tone was anxious.

Bobinette calmed the old man's apprehensions with a nod. "It's done," said
she.

Holding out to him the roll of paper, she added: "I could only get them at
the last minute; but I've got them, and I don't fancy he suspects anything."

As Bobinette uttered these last words, the old accordion player chuckled
sneeringly:

"So that's what you think? As a matter of fact, it is evident that he suspects
nothing now!"
CHAPTER PAGE 33

The way in which the old man pronounced the word "now" puzzled the girl.

"What do you mean?"

"Captain Brocq is dead."

"Dead!"

Although she did not love her lover much, at this startling piece of news
Bobinette had jumped up, wringing her hands in horror. She grew strangely
pale.

"Yes, dead!" replied Vagualame coldly. "Kindly sit down please! See to it
that you play your part! You are a young woman speaking to an old beggar,
and you are not to forget it."

Bobinette sat down mechanically. She questioned him, and her voice was
trembling.

"Dead? What has happened, then?"

"What has happened is that you have played the fool! Brocq saw clearly
that you had stolen the document from him."

"He saw?"...

"Yes, he saw it! I had my suspicions, fortunately!... Then this cursed

captain threw himself into a taxi and followed you.... At the moment when
your own auto turned on the Place de l'Étoile, his was going to meet it!
Brocq was already hailing you, and you would have been caught without a
doubt had I not come to the rescue."

"Great Heavens! What have you done?"

"I have just told you. Clic-clac! A bullet in his heart, and he remains on the
spot."...
CHAPTER PAGE 34

Bobinette was dumbfounded. She did not speak for a minute or two. Then
she asked anxiously:

"But where were you?"

"That does not concern you!"

"What must I say, then, if, by chance, I am questioned?"

"What must you say! The truth."...

"I am to confess that I knew him?"

Vagualame tapped his foot impatiently.

"How stupid you are! There is one thing you must understand. At the
present moment it is almost certain that this good fellow's identity has been
established. The devil's in it if some policeman is not at his domicile
already and if enquiry is not being made into the life of Captain Brocq. To
learn that he is on terms of acquaintanceship with your patron, de
Naarboveck, is child's play! To prove that he has received a visit from you
to-day, to prove that you were his mistress--or, at the very least that you
had come on an errand from Naarboveck's daughter, Wilhelmine, why
anybody can discover that! To-morrow you will read the details in all the
papers, for the reporters are going to get hold of this affair: it is inevitable!
Consequently, do you not deny anything: it would only compromise you to
no good purpose. You will say."...

Vagualame stopped short. He raised the accordion which he carried slung

over his shoulder, saying in a whisper:

"People are coming. I leave you. I will see you again, if necessary. Do not
be anxious. I take all on my own shoulders. Attention!" And suddenly
changing his tone, he began to speak in a voice calculated to excite pity:
CHAPTER PAGE 35

"Grateful thanks, kind lady! The good God will rain blessings on you for
it.... I thank you, kind lady!"

Vagualame moved off.

III

BARON NAARBOVECK'S HOUSE

Despite the gusty wind and squalls of icy rain which deluged Paris, despite
the early morning hour, although it was one of those first dark days of
November which depress humanity, Jérôme Fandor, the journalist, editorial
contributor to the popular evening paper La Capitale, was in a gay mood,
and showed it by singing at the top of his voice, at the risk of rousing the
neighbourhood.

In his very comfortable little flat, rue Richer, where he had lived for a
number of years, the young journalist was coming and going busily:
cupboards, drawers, wardrobes, were opened wide, garments, piles of linen,
were spread about in all the rooms. On the dining-room table a large
travelling bag lay open: into this, with the aid of his housekeeper, Jérôme
Fandor was feverishly packing the spare things he required, and was talking
in joking fashion with his old servant, Angélique.

Presently she asked, rather anxiously:

"Are you likely to be away a long time, sir?"

The journalist shook his head and murmured:

"I should like to be, but you don't suppose we journalists get holidays of
that sort!"

Still anxious, Angélique went on:

CHAPTER PAGE 36

"Perhaps you intend to change your housekeeper when you return,

Monsieur Fandor? Nevertheless----"

"You are really mad, Angélique! Have I not told you twenty times that I am
going away for a fortnight's holiday? Never for a moment have I thought of
getting rid of you--quite the contrary! I am delighted with the way you do
your work. There now! I shall go by way of Monaco--I promise to put five
francs on the red for you!"

"On the red?" questioned old Angélique.

"Yes. It's a game. If red's the winner there will be a present for you! Hurry
off now and bring up my trousers!"

Whilst his housekeeper hastened downstairs, Fandor went to the window

and, with a questioning glance, considered the dull grey sky.

"Disgusting weather!" he murmured. "But what do I care for that? I am

going to the sun of the South--ah, to the sun!" He laughed a great laugh of
satisfaction. How he had looked forward to this holiday, how he had longed
for it!--this holiday he was going to take now, after two-and-twenty months
of uninterrupted work! During those months, in his capacity of chief
reporter to La Capitale, scarcely a day had passed without his having some
move to make, some strange happening to clear up, even some criminal to
pursue; for Jérôme Fandor belonged to that species of active and restless
beings who are ceaselessly at work, ready for action, bent on doing things:
an activity due partly to temperament, partly to conscience. Added to this,
his profession interested him enormously.

At the commencement of his career--and that of journalism is a ticklish

one--he had been greatly helped by Juve, whose knowledge and advice had
been invaluable to him. Fandor had been involved--particularly during the
last few years--in the most sensational crimes, in the most mysterious
affairs, and, whether by chance or voluntarily, he had played a real part in
them. He had not been content to take up the position of onlooker and
historian only.
CHAPTER PAGE 37

Fandor had made his post an important one: he had to be seriously

reckoned with. He had enemies, adversaries far from contemptible, and
time and again the journalist who, with his friend Juve, had taken part in
terrible man-hunts, had attracted towards himself venomous hatreds, all the
more disquieting in that his adversaries were of those who keep in the
shade and never come into the open for a face-to-face tussle.

Finally, and above all, Fandor, coupled with his friend, detective Juve, had
either distinguished himself gloriously or covered himself with ridicule, but
in either case he had attracted public attention by his epic combats with the
most deadly personality of the age--the elusive Fantômas.

But our holiday-making journalist, whistling the latest air, all the rage, gave
no thought to all that. He was reveling in the idea that a few hours hence he
would be installed in a comfortable sleeping compartment, to awake next
morning on the wonderful Côte d'Azur, inundated with light, drenched in
the perfume of tropical flowers, bathed in the radiance of eternal summer.

Ah, then, eight hundred miles and more would separate him from the
offices of La Capitale, of the police stations, of wretched dens and hovels
with their pestilential smells, would separate him from this everlasting bad
weather, from the cold, the wet, which were the ordinary concomitants of
his daily existence. To the devil with all that! No more copy to feed printer
and paper with! No more people to be interviewed! Hurrah! Here were the
holidays! It was leave of absence, and liberty.

The telephone bell rang.

Fandor hesitated a moment. Should he answer it?

According to custom, the journalist "had left" the evening before: he could
plead his leave, which was in order, and say, like Louis XIV, "After me the
deluge!"

This famous saying would have suited the moment, for it was at that instant
precisely that an inky cloud burst over Paris and emptied torrents of water
CHAPTER PAGE 38

over the darkened city.

Perhaps a friend had rung him up--or it was a mistake! So arguing, Fandor
unhooked the receiver.

Having listened a moment, he instinctively adopted a more respectful

attitude, as if his interlocutor at the other end of the line could see him.

Fandor replied in quick monosyllables, closing the conversation with these

words:

"Agreed. Presently, then chief."

As the journalist hung up the receiver his expression changed: he frowned,

and pulling at his moustache with a nervous hand, fretting and fuming.

"Hang it! It only wanted this," he grumbled.

Fandor had been called up by M. Dupont, of L'Aube, the well-known

opportunist deputy, who was the manager of La Capitale as well. M.
Dupont was only a nominal manager, and generally contented himself with
writing up his editorial without even taking it to the office. He left the real
management to his son-in-law, whose function was that of editor-in-chief.
Thus Fandor had been extremely astonished when his "Head," as he was
called in the editorial department, had rung him up.

M. Dupont had summoned him to the Chamber of Deputies, for three

o'clock in the afternoon: his chief wished to give him some information for
an article on a matter which interested him particularly. Fandor was
puzzled, anxious.

What could it be? The chief could not know that he was taking his holiday.

"Bah!" said he, "Dupont evidently does not know. I will go to our
meeting-place and will explain my approaching departure to him, and the
devil's in it if he does not pass on this bit of reporting to one of my
CHAPTER PAGE 39

colleagues!"

"Madame Angélique," continued Fandor in a joyous voice, turning to the

breathless old housekeeper who had just come back laden with parcels,
"Get me lunch quickly. Then you must strap up my portmanteau. This
evening I am going to make off, whatever happens!"

*****

For two hours, interminable hours they seemed, Fandor had waited for M.
Dupont in the Hall des Perdus[1] of the Palais-Bourbon. The deputy was at
a sitting of the Chamber. If the ushers were to be believed, the discussion
was likely to go on interminably. Several times our young journalist had
thought he would simply make off without word said, excusing himself on
the score of a misunderstanding when eight hundred odd miles lay between
him and the directorial thunders. But he was too scrupulous a journalist, too
professionally honest to follow the prompting of his desires.

[Footnote 1: Hall of the Wandering Footsteps.]

So, champing his bit, Fandor had stood his ground.

As he was looking at his watch for the hundred and fiftieth time, he quickly
rose and hastened towards two men who came out of a corridor: they were
M. Dupont and a personage whom Fandor recognised at once. He bowed
respectfully to them, shaking hands with the cordial M. Dupont, who said
to his companion:

"My dear Minister, let me present to you my young collaborator, Jérôme

Fandor."

"It is a name not unknown to me," replied the minister; then, having
innumerable calls on his time, he quickly disappeared.

A few minutes after, in one of the little sitting-rooms reserved for

Parliamentary Commissions, the manager of La Capitale was conversing
CHAPTER PAGE 40

with his chief reporter.

"It was not to present me to the minister that you sent for me, my dear
Chief--unless you intend to get me an appointment as sub-prefect, in which
case."...

"In which case?" questioned M. Dupont gently.

Fandor's reply was frank.

"In which case, even before being nominated, I should tender you my
resignation: it is not a profession which tempts me much!"

"Reassure yourself, Fandor, I have no intention whatever of sending you to

live in the provinces: but if I asked you to see me here, it was with
reference to a very delicate affair about which I mean to give you
instructions--I insist on this word."

"Good," thought Fandor. "It's all up with my holiday!"

He tried to ask this question before his chief went into details, but M.
Dupont interrupted him with a movement of his hand.

"You will leave for your holiday a few hours later, my dear fellow, and you
can take eight days in addition."

Fandor bowed. He could not dispute his chief's decision--and he had gained
by this arrangement.

"My dear Fandor," said his chief, coming to the main point, "we published
yesterday evening, as you, of course, know, a short paragraph on the death
of an artillery officer, Captain Brocq.... There is something mysterious
about his death. Captain Brocq who, owing to his functions, was attached to
the Second Bureau of the Staff Headquarters, that is to say, the Intelligence
Department, was in touch with different sets of people: it would be
interesting to get some information about them. I mentioned this just now
CHAPTER PAGE 41

to the Minister of War, and to the Minister for Home Affairs: both are
agreed, that, without making too much noise about this incident, we should
institute enquiries, discreet, of course, but also pretty exhaustive. You are
the only man on the paper possessed of the necessary tact and ability to
carry the thing through successfully."

*****

An hour later, under the pouring rain, Fandor, with turned-up trousers, his
greatcoat collar raised, was walking stoically along the Esplanade des
Invalides, which was feebly lighted by a few scarcely visible gas-jets. He
reached the other side of the Place à la rue Fabert; looked at the number of
the first house in front of him, followed the pavement a moment, turning
his back on the Seine, then reached the Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg by
way of the rue de l'Université.

Fandor repeated to himself the final words of his chief's instructions.

"Interview Baron de Naarboveck; get into touch with a young person called
Bobinette; find out who and what are the frequenters of the house where
this well-known diplomat lives."

Our journalist was not anxious as to the result of his interview; it was not
his first experience of the kind, and this time his task was rendered
especially easy, owing to the letter of introduction which M. Dupont had
given him, in order that he might have a talk with M. de Naarboveck, who
lived in a sumptuous mansion in the rue Fabert.

Fandor did not go straight ahead to this interview: his method was not so
simple. After identifying the front of the house, wishing to know the
immediate neighbourhood thoroughly, he went all round the mass of houses
which limited the rue de l'Université; he went through the Avenue de la
Tour-Maubourg, in order to discover whether the house was double or
single, if it had one or two exits. Fandor was too much a detective at heart
to neglect the smallest detail.
CHAPTER PAGE 42

His inspection was soon done. The house possessed two entrances; that in
the Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg was for the use of the servants and
common folk only. The front door opened on the rue Fabert. A courtyard at
the back separated it from the Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg.

The house consisted of three storeys, and a ground-floor approached by a

few steps.

Fandor returned to the Esplanade des Invalides, and walked up and down
under the trees for some time, watching the comings and goings of the
neighbourhood. At a quarter to seven he had looked at his watch, and, not
seeing any light in the first-floor rooms, the shutters of which were not yet
closed, he concluded that the inmates had probably not come in.

Just then Fandor saw an automobile, a very elegant limousine, draw up

before M. de Naarboveck's house. A man of a certain age descended from
it, and vanished in the shadow of a doorway: the door had opened as the
carriage stopped.

"That's de Naarboveck," thought Fandor.

Then he saw the carriage turn and move away.

"The carriage goes in: the master does not go out again," deduced Fandor.

A short time after, the chauffeur, having taken off his livery, came out of
the house and went away.

"Good," remarked Fandor. "The man I am after will not budge from the
house to-night."

The next to enter were two young women: then some twenty minutes
passed. The rooms on the first floor were lit up, one after the other. The
house was waking up. Fandor was making up his mind to ring when a
motor-car brought a fourth person to the door. It was a young man, smart,
distinguished-looking, very fair, wearing a long thin drooping moustache:
CHAPTER PAGE 43

movements and appearance spoke his profession: an officer in mufti,

beyond question.

Fandor once more encircled the house; he had reached the door opening on
to the Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg when he saw a confectioner's boy slip
into the house.

"M. Dupont told me de Naarboveck lived alone with his daughter, therefore
he has people dining with him this evening," reasoned the journalist. He
then decided to dine himself, and return an hour and a half later.
Naarboveck well dined and wined could give him more time, and would be
the easier to interview.

Three-quarters of an hour later Fandor left the humble eating-house, where

he had dined badly in the company of coachmen and house-servants, but
fully informed as to the private and public existence of the person he was
going to interview. He had set his host and his table neighbours gossiping
to such purpose that he could tell at what time de Naarboveck rose in the
morning, what his habits were, if he fasted on Fridays, and what he paid for
his cigars.

*****

"Monsieur de Naarboveck, if you please?"

Jérôme Fandor had rung the bell of the front entrance in the rue Fabert. It
was just striking nine. A house-porter of the correct stamp appeared.

"He lives here, Monsieur."

Fandor offered his card, and the letter of introduction from M. Dupont.

"Please see that these are handed to Monsieur de Naarboveck, and find out
if he can receive me."
CHAPTER PAGE 44

The porter, having decided that the visitor was too well dressed to be left
waiting on the steps, signed to the young man to follow him. The porter
rang, and a footman in undress livery immediately appeared, and took card
and letter from the porter.

The servant looked consideringly at Fandor's name engraved on the card,

stared at this unknown visitor, hoping he would definitely state the purpose
of his visit, but the journalist remained impassive, and as his profession was
not indicated on his card the servant had to be satisfied with his own
curiosity.

"Kindly wait here a moment," said the footman, in a fairly civil tone of
voice. "I will see if my master is at home."

Fandor remained alone in a vast hall, furnished after the Renaissance

manner. Costly tapestries covered the walls with their imposing pictures,
their sumptuously woven epics.

The footman quickly returned.

"Will Monsieur kindly follow me?"

Relieved of his overcoat, Fandor obeyed.

One side of the hall opened on a great double staircase, the white stone of
which, turned grey with the passing of time, softened by a thick carpet and
ornamented by a marvellous balustrade of delicately wrought iron-work, a
masterpiece of the XVIIth century.

The lackey opened a door which gave access to a magnificent

reception-room, sparsely furnished with pieces of the best Louis XIV
period. Mirrors reflected the canvases of famous painters, family pictures of
immense artistic value, and still more valuable as souvenirs.

Traversing this fine apartment, they passed through other drawing rooms
furnished in perfect taste. Fandor reached the smoking-room at last, where
CHAPTER PAGE 45

Empire furniture was judiciously mingled with pieces made for comfort
after the English fashion, the tawny leather of which harmonised
marvellously with the blood-red of the ancient mahogany and with its
ancient bronzes.

The lackey pointed to a chair and disappeared.

"By jove!" said Fandor, half aloud, "this fine fellow has done himself well
in the way of a dwelling-place!"

The journalist's reflections were interrupted by the entrance of an

exceedingly elegant young lady.

Fandor rose and saluted this charming apparition.

IV

A CORDIAL RECEPTION

The journalist had naturally expected to see Monsieur de Naarboveck enter

the room: in his stead came this pretty girl.

"Be seated, I beg, Monsieur," she entreated.

"She is his daughter," thought Fandor. "I am given the go-by: the
diplomatist is not going to see me! I am sorry for that, but, on the other
hand, here is this delicious creature."

"You asked to see Monsieur de Naarboveck, did you not? It is for an

interview, no doubt. Monsieur de Naarboveck makes it a point of honour
never to get himself written about in the newspapers, therefore you must
not be surprised."...

The charming girl paused.

Fandor bowed and smiled. He said to himself:

CHAPTER PAGE 46

"I shall have to listen for five minutes to this delightful person assuring me
that her father does not wish to talk; after that he will come himself, and
will tell me all I want to know."...

Thus he listened with divided attention to the pretty creature's words. Then
he interjected:

"Monsieur, your father."...

His companion smiled.

"Excuse me!" she said at once. "You have made a mistake: I am not
Mademoiselle Wilhelmine de Naarboveck, as you seem to imagine. I am
merely her companion: I dare add, a friend of the house. They call me
Mademoiselle Berthe."...

"Bobinette!" cried Fandor, almost in spite of himself. He immediately

regretted this too familiar interjection; but that young person did not take
offence.

"They certainly do call me that--my intimates, at least," she added with a

touch of malice.

Fandor made his apology in words at once playful and correct. He must do
all in his power to make himself agreeable, fascinating, that he might get
into the good graces of this girl; for she was the very person whom it
behooved him to interrogate regarding the mysterious adventure, the
outcome of which had been the death of Captain Brocq.

Bobinette had answered Fandor's polite remarks by protesting that she was
not in the least offended at his familiar mode of address.

"Alas, Monsieur," she had declared, in a tone slightly sad, "I am too much
afraid that my name, the pet name my friends use, will become very
quickly known to the public; for, I suppose, what you have come to see M.
Naarboveck about is to ask him for information regarding this sad affair we
CHAPTER PAGE 47

have all been thinking so much about."

"Now we have come to it!" thought Fandor.

He was going to take the lead in this conversation, but the young woman
did not give him time.

She continued in a rapid tone, on one note, almost as if she had repeated a
lesson learned by heart.

"Baron de Naarboveck, Monsieur, cannot tell you anything that you do not
already know, except--and there is no secret about it--that Captain Brocq
used to come here pretty regularly. He has dined with the Baron frequently,
and they have worked at several things together.... Several of his friends,
officers, have been received here as well: M. de Naarboveck is very fond of
company."...

"And then he has a daughter, has he not?" interrupted Fandor.

"Mademoiselle Wilhelmine, yes."

Fandor nearly added:

"A daughter to get married."

It seemed clear to him, that in spite of her timid and reserved airs, this
red-haired beauty seemed to like the idea of playing a part in the drama.

"Mademoiselle," questioned Fandor, "it has been reported that yesterday

afternoon you had occasion to meet Captain Brocq, some hours before his
sad end?"

The young woman stared fixedly at the journalist, as if to read his thoughts,
as if to divine whether or not he knew that not only had she met Captain
Brocq, but had spent some time with him alone.
CHAPTER PAGE 48

Fandor did know it, but he remained impenetrable.

Bobinette, very much mistress of herself, said quite simply:

"It is a fact Monsieur, that I did see Captain Brocq yesterday. I had to give
him a message."

"You will think me very inquisitive," continued Fandor, who pretended not
to look at the young woman, in order to put her more at her ease, but who,
in reality, did not lose a single change of expression on her pretty face, for
he could watch its reflection in a mirror. "You will think me very
inquisitive, but could you tell me the nature of ... this communication?"

Bobinette replied, quite naturally:

"To be sure I can, Monsieur. Baron de Naarboveck is giving an

entertainment here shortly, and the captain was going to take part in it. As
he was very much of an artist we counted on his doing some menus in
colour for us: I simply went to see him with a message from Mademoiselle
Wilhelmine."...

The conversation stopped short.

Fandor had turned around quickly. Behind him--doubtless he had been

there for some moments--a man was standing. Fandor had not heard him
enter the room. He was a man of a certain age. His moustache was quite
white: he wore the whiskers and imperial of 1850.

Fandor recognised Baron Naarboveck. He was going to apologise for not

having noticed his entrance, but de Naarboveck smiled at the journalist
with apparent cordiality.

"Pardon me, Monsieur Fandor, for not having received you myself, but I
had a guest: moreover, Mademoiselle Berthe must have told you what my
views are regarding interviews."...
CHAPTER PAGE 49

Fandor made a slight gesture. The baron continued:

"Oh, they are definite, unalterable! But that will not prevent you from
taking a cup of coffee with us, I feel sure. I have the highest esteem for
Monsieur Dupont, and the terms in which he has recommended you to me
are such that, from now on, I have not the slightest hesitation in treating
you as one of ourselves, as a friend."

Monsieur Naarboveck put his hand familiarly on the young journalist's

shoulder, and led him into the next room.

It was a library: a very lofty room. It was soberly and elegantly furnished.
Before a great chimney-piece of wood, two young people were standing,
and were chatting very much at their ease.

They paused when Fandor entered.

Close behind followed Mademoiselle Berthe.

Fandor bowed to the two young people.

Naarboveck made the introductions:

"Monsieur Jérôme Fandor--Mademoiselle de Naarboveck, my

daughter--Monsieur de Loubersac, lieutenant of cuirassiers."

Silence reigned after these formal introductions. If Fandor was in certain

measure satisfied with the turn the conversation had taken, he was really
bored by this involuntary intrusion into a family gathering which mattered
little to him. He felt he had been caught. How the devil was he going to
escape from this wasp's nest? His eye fell on a timepiece. Seeing the hour,
he thought:

"Had it not been for this Brocq fellow, and that fool of a Dupont, I should
now be in the train asleep, and rolling along towards Dijon!"...
CHAPTER PAGE 50

Mademoiselle de Naarboveck, with the ease of a well-bred woman, offered

the journalist a cup of boiling hot coffee.

Mademoiselle Berthe suggested sugar.

Monsieur de Naarboveck, as if he had suddenly remembered something,

said to him:

"But you bear a name which recalls many things, Monsieur Jérôme Fandor!
It was you, of course, famous journalist that you are, who, some time ago,
was in constant pursuit of a mysterious ruffian whom they called
Fantômas?"

Fandor, a little embarrassed, smiled. It seemed to him something quite

abnormal to hear Fantômas mentioned in this gathering, so simple, so
natural, so commonplace.

Surely, this criminal, his adventures, the police, and even reporting, must
partake of the fantastic, the imaginary--it must all be Greek to such
conventional people.

Nevertheless, as Monsieur de Naarboveck spoke, Mademoiselle Berthe

drew close to the journalist and gazed at him with curiosity.

"But tell me, Monsieur, may I ask you a question? Perhaps it is my turn to
be inquisitive--but then, so were you just now!"

Fandor laughed. Decidedly this young and pretty person was charming.

"I am certainly bound to reply to you as you wish, Mademoiselle!"

Nodding with a mischievous look, and casting a glance at the Baron asking
his approval--he signified his consent by a nod--she demanded with an
innocently curious air:

"Do tell me, Monsieur, who this Fantômas is?"

CHAPTER PAGE 51

Fandor stood speechless.

Ah, this question, which this young woman had asked so naturally, as if it
referred to the most simple thing in the world, how often had he asked
himself that same question? During how many sleepless nights had his
mind not been full of it? And he had never been able to find a satisfactory
answer to "Who is Fantômas?"

Fandor had been asking this question for years. He had, after a fashion,
vowed his existence to the search for this mysterious individual. How often,
and often, in the course of his investigation, in the midst of his struggles
with criminals during his long talks and conferences with Juve, had he not
thought that he had run the bandit to earth, identified him, was going to
drag his personality out into the broad light of day--and then, suddenly,
Fantômas had disappeared.

Fantômas had made a mock of him, of Juve, of the police, of everybody!

For weeks, for months, all trace of him was lost completely; then one fine
day he would produce a drama, it might be a big drama, which took public
opinion captive, it might be a drama in appearance insignificant, and then
each one saw and followed traces which were more or less normal and
ordinarily probable. Fandor and Juve, Fandor alone, or Juve isolated,
following the indications which only their perspicacity enabled them to
discover, still and always felt the presence, the trace of this monster, this
being so enigmatical, so indefinable, who was terrorising humanity.

Then implacable and dangerous pursuits, redoubtable struggles, were the

order of their days and nights.

Juve, Fandor, the representatives of justice, one and all, united to reduce the
circle in which this ruffian revolved, and at the moment they were about to
catch him, he would fade away, leaving them as their only spoil, the
temporary personality with which he had clothed himself, and under which
he had momentarily deigned to make himself known.
CHAPTER PAGE 52

Now behold, here was this little red-haired creature, Bobinette, who asked
for the solution of this formidable, incomprehensible, unprecedented thing,
wanted it straight away.

"Who is Fantômas?"

Fandor's attitude, his expression showed how surprised he was at such a

question.

M. de Naarboveck emphasised and justified the journalist's astonishment.

Then, in a rather dry, hard voice, Monsieur de Loubersac gave his opinion:

"My dear Baron, don't you think that for several years past we have been
made sufficient fools of with all these Fantômas tales? For my part, I don't
believe a word of them! Such a powerful criminal has no chance nowadays,
that is to say, if he exists. One must see life in its true proportions and
recognise that it is very commonplace."...

"But, Monsieur," interrupted Mademoiselle Berthe, who, covered with

blushes, scarcely dared raise her eyes to the handsome lieutenant, "but,
Monsieur, for all that, Fantômas has been much talked about!"

The young officer looked the red-haired beauty up and down, bestowing on
her but a cursory glance. Fandor noticed that Bobinette was greatly
troubled by it. Following this little by-play, he immediately got a very clear
impression that if the lieutenant did not consider the pretty girl worthy of
much consideration, she, on her side, seemed very much influenced by all
that this elegant and handsome young officer said or did.

Fandor had noticed, too, while the talk went on, that Mademoiselle de
Naarboveck was deeply moved, and looked sorrowful. She was a graceful
girl, in all the freshness and brilliancy of her twenty years, with large eyes,
soft and luminous. Her natural disposition was evidently a bright and gay
one, but this evening sadness overshadowed her, and to such a point that, in
spite of her efforts to be lively and pleasant, she could not hide her sad
CHAPTER PAGE 53

preoccupation.

M. de Naarboveck, who had been watching Fandor closely, said to him, in

a low voice:

"Wilhelmine has been very much upset by this terrible accident which has
overtaken our friend, Captain Brocq, and we."...

Just then, the harsh sarcastic tones of de Loubersac broke in afresh:

"In conclusion," exclaimed the lieutenant, "I maintain that Fantômas is an

invention, a more or less original one, I am ready to admit, but an invention
of not the least practical interest. Just an invention of the detectives, this
Fantômas; or, it may be of the journalists only, who have made the gaping
public swallow this hocus-pocus pill--this enormous pill!" The lieutenant
stared at Fandor defiantly. "And let me add, I speak from knowledge, for,
up to a certain point, I know all these individuals!"

Fandor was not in the least impressed by the lieutenant's aggressive

declarations. He regarded him calmly--there was a touch of irony in his
gaze: at the same time, he did not clearly understand de Loubersac's last
phrase.

The excellent Monsieur de Naarboveck murmured in his ear:

"De Loubersac, you know, has to do with the Second Bureau at the
Ministry of War: the statistics department."...

*****

It was only at half past eleven that Fandor had been able to tear himself
away from the de Naarboveck house.

Fandor wandered on the boulevards a long time before he returned to his

flat.
CHAPTER PAGE 54

On his table, near his portmanteau ready strapped for departure, he found
the Railway Guide lying open at the page showing the lines from Paris to
the Côte d'Azur! He would not look at the seductive time-table. He rushed
to his portmanteau, undid the straps in furious haste, dragged out his
clothes, which he flung to the four quarters of the room. For the moment he
was in a towering rage.

"And now, confound it! That Brocq affair is not clear! It's no use my trying
to persuade myself to the contrary! There is some mystery about it! Those
officers! This diplomat! And then this questionable person, neither servant,
nor lady accustomed to good society, who has to me all the appearance of
playing not merely a double rôle, but at the least a triple, perhaps a
quadruple!... Good old Fandor, there's nothing for it, if you want to go
South, but to see friend Juve and get some light on it all."

Having come to this conclusion, Fandor went to bed. He could not sleep.
There was one word which ceaselessly formed itself in luminous letters
before his mind's eye--a word he dare not articulate. It was a synthetic word
which brought into a collected whole facts and ideas; it was the summing
up of his presentiments, of his conclusions, of his fears; the word which
said all without defining anything, but permitted everything to be inferred:
that word was--Spying!

THEY ARE NOT AGREED

As one who had the privilege of free entry to the house, Fandor opened the
front door of Juve's flat with the latchkey he possessed as a special favour,
traversed the semi-darkness of the corridor and went towards his friend's
study.

He raised the curtain, opened the door half-way, and caught sight of Juve at
his desk.

"Don't disturb yourself, it is only Fandor!"

CHAPTER PAGE 55

The detective was absorbed in the letter he was writing to such a degree
that he had never even heard the journalist enter. At the sound of his voice
Juve started.

"What! You! I thought you had flown yesterday, flown South!"

Fandor smiled a woeful smile.

"I did expect to get away yesterday evening. Juve, in my calling, as in

yours, it is the height of stupidity to make plans. You see! Here I am
still--stuck here!"

Juve nodded assent.

"Well, what then?" he asked.

"Well, what do you think, Juve?"

The detective leaned back in his chair and considered his young friend.

"Well, my dear Fandor, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

Fandor did not seem much disposed to answer. He had taken off his hat and
overcoat. Now he drew from his pocket a cigarette-case. He selected one
and lighted it carefully, seeming to find a veritable delight in the first
whiffs which he sent towards the ceiling.

"It's a fine day, Juve!"

The detective, more and more astonished, considered the journalist with the
utmost attention.

"What's the matter with you, Fandor?" he said at last.

"Why are you carrying on like this? Why are you not on your travels?...
Without being inquisitive, I suppose you have your head full of other things
CHAPTER PAGE 56

than the state of the weather?"

"And you, Juve?"

"How? I?"

"Juve, I ask you why you are so upset?"

The detective folded his arms.

"My word, Fandor, but you are losing your head. You think, then, that I am
thoroughly upset?"

"Juve, you look like a death's-head!"

"Really?"

"Juve, you have not been to bed!"

"I have not been to bed, have I not? How do you know that?"

Fandor approached the writing-table and pointed to the corner, where a

series of half-smoked cigarettes were ranged side by side.

"Ah, I do not doubt, Juve, but that they tidy up your study every morning;
but, here are twenty-five cigarette ends, lying side by side: you certainly
have not smoked all those in one morning, consequently you have lighted
them during the night, and consequently you have not gone to bed."

Juve's tone was bantering.

"Continue, little one, you interest me."

"And, to cap it all, the ends of your cigarettes have been chewed, bitten,
mangled,--an indisputable sign of high nervous tension--therefore."...
CHAPTER PAGE 57

"Therefore, Fandor?"

"Therefore, Juve, I ask what is wrong with you--that's all!"

The detective fixed the journalist with a piercing look, trying to guess what
he was aiming at. But Fandor was too good a pupil of Juve to let him have
the slightest inkling of his feelings. There was an enigmatic smile on his
lips whilst he awaited Juve's reply.

The detective quickly decided to speak out.

"I am looking into a very serious affair which interests me greatly."

"Grave?"

"Possibly."

This did not satisfy Fandor. He seated himself on the corner of the
writing-table and considered his friend.

"See now, Juve, answer me if you can see your way to it.... Your attitude
makes me sure that important things are in the air: you are in a very
emotional condition, and that for some reason I have not fathomed. Can I
be useful to you? Will you not let me share this secret?"

"Will you tell me yours?"

"In three minutes."

Juve sat for a few minutes deep in thought. Then in a changed voice, a
solemn voice with a sharp note in it, he said:

"You know about Captain Brocq's sudden death, of course?... Let me tell
you that I have discovered it was an assassination. It's this affair I am
giving all my attention to."
CHAPTER PAGE 58

When there was mention of the Brocq affair, Fandor started. Here was a
strange coincidence. Since last night had not his own mind been distressed
by the mysteries he divined in this strange death? And now here was Juve
also upset by his examination of this same affair.

Fandor drew up a chair, placed himself astride it, facing Juve, putting his
elbows on the back and holding his head between his hands.

"You are looking into this Brocq affair, Juve?... Very well! So am I!... You
have read my articles?"

"They are very interesting."

"They lack conclusiveness, however!... But, as things are, I could not do

better, not having any precise information and facts to go upon. Are you
quite certain about the facts yourself? Do you know who has struck the
blow?"

"Don't you suspect, Fandor?"

Juve did not give him time to reply. He half rose from his seat, and,
bending close to Fandor, looked him straight in the eyes.

"Tell me, my boy! Suppose that after six months of truce, six months of
tranquillity, your whole existence is again violently upset? If you
understood that the efforts and dangers and struggles and tenacity of six
long years were entirely wasted, and that the results you thought you had
achieved did not exist--that you had to begin all over again--that once more
you had to play a match with not only your life for stakes, but your honour
as well--tell me, Fandor, would you not be stirred to your depths?"

Our journalist feigned indifference: it was the best way to draw Juve on, he
well knew.

"What do you mean, Juve?"

CHAPTER PAGE 59

"What do I mean, my boy? You shall hear! Do you know who killed
Captain Brocq?"

"No! Who?"

"Fantômas!"

At this sinister name Fandor jumped up as though thunderstruck.

"Fantômas?... You accuse Fantômas of having killed Captain Brocq?"

Juve nodded assent.

The two men stared at each other in horror-struck silence.

Fantômas!

What a flood of memories, horrid, menacing, that name evoked! There

flashed through Fandor's mind all that he knew of the atrocities which
could be imputed to Fantômas. He seemed to live over again the recent
years of continual struggle, of almost daily contest with the mysterious
criminal--Fantômas!... But had not Juve declared--and not so long
ago--after the drama of rue Norvins,[2] when the elusive monster had been
driven to flight--had not Juve declared that Fantômas had vanished for good
and all! Now, at this precise moment, he was accusing this criminal of a
fresh crime!... Fandor thought, too, of the conclusions he had himself
arrived at, whilst studying the Brocq affair from his own point of view: that
it was a drama of spies and spying.... Surely either he was mistaken--or
Juve was!... Was it a murder, or a political assassination?... No longer
pretending indifference, he questioned Juve anxiously:

[Footnote 2: See The Exploits of Juve, vol. ii, Fantômas Series.]

"You accuse Fantômas? In the name of death and destruction, why?"

CHAPTER PAGE 60

Juve had regained his self-possession. By pronouncing the word

"Fantômas," by giving utterance to his secret fears, he had relieved his
feelings.

"Fandor!" said he, in a quiet voice: "Consider carefully all the details and
circumstances of this drama! In open day, on one of the most frequented
promenades of Paris, an officer falls mortally wounded when passing in a
taxicab, going possibly to some appointed meeting-place in one of the
restaurants of the Bois. His taxi is surrounded by a crowd of vehicles, and
without having time even to see his attacker, without anyone having seen
him, Brocq collapses, mortally wounded, killed as though in battle, by a
shot, a mysterious shot, fired from a weapon of the most perfect kind....
Come now, Fandor! Is that not a crime worthy of Fantômas?"

But the journalist was not convinced.

"True, this crime is worthy of Fantômas, but I do not think Fantômas has
committed it.... You go too far, Juve! You are the victim of your hobby.
Believe me, you exaggerate--you cannot trace every strange and subtle
crime to this criminal!"

"If you do not attribute this crime to Fantômas, then at whose door do you
lay it?" demanded the detective, who was well aware that he must guard
against being the victim of a Fantômas obsession.

"Juve," replied Fandor, "I have been charged by Dupont to look into the
Brocq affair, and have had to postpone my holiday to do it--that is how you
see me this morning.... Well, I have begun my enquiry, and am trying to
find out the exact truth regarding this unfortunate officer's death.... I have
visited certain of his relations, interviewed the people who have known
him, I have been able to get into touch with this Bobinette, who seems to be
the last person who approached him a little before his assassination, and I
have also arrived at a conclusion."

"And that is--Fandor?"

CHAPTER PAGE 61

"A conclusion, Juve, which does not involve Fantômas in the slightest
degree, a conclusion which, I assure you, has the advantage of being more
certain, plainer, more absolutely definite than yours."...

"And that is--Fandor?"

"Juve, this officer belonged to the Second Bureau of the Staff Officer's
Headquarters."...

"Yes, and?"...

"Juve, when an officer of the Second Bureau disappears in such tragic

conditions, do you know what one presumes to be the reason of that
disappearance?"

"What?"

"Juve, I assert that if Captain Brocq is dead it is because there is a spy in

the pay of a foreign power, who, being under supervision, perhaps on the
point of being arrested, has resolved that the captain must die in order to
save himself.... A document has been stolen, and it is precisely this fact
which makes me disbelieve in the intervention of Fantômas."...

"You do not believe me, Juve?"

The detective shrugged his shoulders.

"No, I do not think you are right.... In the first place, Fantômas is capable of
everything--capable of the theft of a document for which a foreign power
would pay him very highly, just as there is no other kind of theft he is not
capable of.... And then, dear boy, a spy, a traitor in the pay of a foreign
power would not dare to attempt the crime to which we are giving all our
attention--not in that particular way at any rate. There is only one person
who would risk that--Fantômas."
CHAPTER PAGE 62

Fandor's laugh had a note of mockery in it. He let Juve see that he thought
his ideas on this subject were very simple indeed.

"It is your hobby which always inspires you," he repeated.... "Beyond

question I am the first to believe in the audacity of Fantômas ... and if I do
not know all the secrets of terror hidden in this word 'spying,' I am ready
enough to be convinced.... But, look here, Juve, I know the world of spies, I
have studied them, I know what they are capable of attempting, ... and I do
not speak lightly when I tell you that the assassination of Brocq is a
political crime."

Juve continued to shake his head, quite unconvinced.

Fandor continued:

"Juve, believe me! Who says 'spy,' says 'capable of anything.' The officers
of the Second Bureau are, in short, the true directors of the police spy
system; they know all the shameful mysteries whereby some individual
reputed honest, honourable in appearance, is in the pay of the foreigner.
They know the traitors. They know who sells France and who buys France.
Every day they are in relation with the agents belonging to all classes of
society, lawyers, commercial men, small shopkeepers, commercial
travellers, railway servants, women of the world, women of the pavement,
thousands of individuals who continually travel about the country, holding
it in a network of observations, notes, remarks, the result of all of which
might be that some one power would have immediately the advantage over
some other, because it knew the weak points where it could launch its
attack.... You know, Juve, that they are people who do not shrink from
anything when their interest is at stake. You know that the man who
betrays, who spies, who is an informer, is always disavowed by the country
who employs him.... You know that those who are taken in the act are
punished to the utmost, consequently they will stick at nothing to save
themselves from being caught. Do you not think that in this spy-world there
might be found a man who, driven into a corner by circumstances, would
be daring enough to commit the crime which is occupying our attention
now? You say: 'It is a crime worthy of Fantômas!' Agreed. But I reply to
CHAPTER PAGE 63

you: 'There must be spies worthy of being compared to Fantômas!'"...

Fandor stopped short. Suddenly Juve threw himself back in his chair: the
detective laughed aloud, a burst of ironic laughter. "My dear boy," said he,
"do not be angry with me."

"What nonsense, Juve--You know very well that I would not be that!"

"Well, my dear Fandor, you see in the assassination of Captain Brocq an

affair of spying because you have had your hobby for some time past--the
hobby of spying."

Fandor smiled. Juve continued:

"Come! Is it not true that six months ago--it was just after the Dollon
assassination--you published in La Capitale a whole series of papers
relating to affairs of treason?"

"True, but."...

"Is it correct that you learned just then that one could define the Second
Bureau as the world of spies, and that you were extremely struck by this,
extremely surprised?"

"That is so, Juve. It is precisely because I had this information, and was
able to get a fair knowledge of the terrible secrets existing in this dark
Government department, that I am in a position now to ascribe the Brocq
affair to the action of some group of spies."

"Your hobby again, Fandor! The assassination of the captain has occurred
under such circumstances that it can only be imputed to Fantômas. Let us
look the truth in the face! We are going to enter into a fresh struggle with
Fantômas! That is a certainty!"

"It's your hobby now, Juve! There's no Fantômas in this affair. No! We are
face to face with a very serious business, there I agree with you; but it is
CHAPTER PAGE 64

wholly a spy job--nothing else!"

Getting up, the journalist added:

"This very evening I shall publish in La Capitale an article in which I shall

explain exactly what spies are, the real part they play in the body politic,
their terrible power; that it is a mistake to consider them only cowards; that
owing to the exigencies of their sinister profession, they very often give
proof of an exceptional courage--bravery--and in which I shall."...

With a shrug, Juve interrupted:

"In which you will write nonsense, old boy.... Anyhow, you are free!"

"That's true! Free to spend a fortnight in the Sunny South, where I shall be
in a few hours' time! Anyhow, read my article in La Capitale; I tell you I
am going to take a lot of trouble over it!"...

"A fortnight hence, then, Juve!" He added in a bantering tone:

"Don't dream too much of Fantômas.... What!"

VI

CORPORAL VINSON

With one knee resting on his portmanteau, Jérôme Fandor was pulling with
all the force of his powerful arms at the straps in order to buckle them up.

It was Sunday, November the thirteenth, and five o'clock in the afternoon.
The flat was brilliantly illuminated, and the greatest disorder reigned
throughout.

At last Fandor was off for his holiday! Not to risk losing his train, our
journalist meant to dine at the Lyons railway station.
CHAPTER PAGE 65

"Ouf!" cried he, when he had succeeded in cramming his mass of garments
sufficiently tight, and had then closed the portmanteau.

Fandor uttered a sigh of satisfaction. This time there could be no doubt

about his departure--the thing was certain. He was casting a final glance
round when he stopped short in the middle of the passage.

The door-bell had been rung: evidently someone was at the entrance door.
Who was it? What was it? Had something arisen which was going to
prevent his departure? He went quickly to the door. He opened it to find a
soldier on the landing.

"Monsieur Fandor?" he enquired in a gentle, rather husky voice.

"Yes. What is it you want?" replied the journalist crossly.

The soldier came forward a step: then, as if making an effort, he articulated

painfully:

"Will you permit me to enter? I am most anxious to speak to you."

Fandor, with a movement of the hand, signified that the importunate

stranger might come inside. He observed the man closely. He was quite
young, and wore infantry uniform: his stripes were those of a corporal. His
hair was brown, and his light eyes were in marked contrast to the much
darker tones of his face. A slight moustache shaded his lip.

The corporal followed Fandor into his study, and stood still with an
embarrassed air. The journalist considered him an instant, then asked:

"To whom have I the honour of speaking?"

This question appeared to tear the soldier from a kind of dream. He jumped,
then mechanically stood at attention, as if before a superior officer.

"I am Corporal Vinson."

CHAPTER PAGE 66

Fandor nodded, tried to remember him, but in vain. The name told him
nothing....

"I have not the honour to be known to you, Monsieur, but I know you very
well through your articles."

Then he continued in almost a supplicating tone:

"I greatly need speech with you, Monsieur."...

"Another bore," said Fandor to himself, "who wants to get me to give him a
recommendation of some sort!"

Our journalist boiled with impatience at the thought of the precious minutes
he was losing. He would have to cut his dinner short if he did not wish to
miss the night express. Nevertheless, wishing to lessen the unpleasant
reception he had given this unwelcome visitor, he murmured in a tone
which was cold, all the same:

"Pray be seated, Monsieur: I am listening to you!"

Corporal Vinson seemed greatly agitated.

The invitation was evidently very opportune, for the visitor let himself fall
heavily into an arm-chair. Great drops of perspiration were on his forehead,
his lips were pallid: at intervals he looked at the journalist, whose
impassible countenance did not seem to invite confidences. The poor
trooper lost countenance more and more: Fandor remained silent.

At last Vinson managed to say, in a voice strangling with emotion:

"Ah! Monsieur, excuse me for having come to disturb you like this, but I
was determined to tell you ... to know you--to express to you ... how I
appreciate your talent, your way of writing ... how I like the ideas you
express in your paper!... There was your last article, so just, so ...
charitable!"
CHAPTER PAGE 67

"You are very kind, Monsieur," interrupted Fandor, "and I am much

obliged to you; but, if it is the same to you, we might arrange a meeting for
another day, because now I am very pressed for time."...

Fandor made as if to rise to emphasise his statement; but Corporal Vinson,

far from imitating the movement, sank deeper and deeper in the large
arm-chair, into which he had literally fallen a few minutes before, and with
an accent of profound anguish, for he understood Fandor's desire to shorten
the conversation, he cried with a groan:

"Ah, Monsieur, do not send me away! If I keep silence now, I shall never
have the courage to speak--but I must."...

The soldier's countenance was so full of alarm that Fandor regretted his
first movement of ill-temper, his show of impatience. Perhaps this man had
interesting things to say! He must give the fellow confidence. Fandor
smiled.

"Very well," he suggested amiably, "let us have a talk if you really wish
it."...

Corporal Vinson considered Fandor a moment, thanking him with a look

for his more cordial attitude; then suddenly drawing himself up into a
standing position, he shouted:

"Monsieur Fandor ... I am a traitor!"

Though far from expecting so brutal a declaration, Fandor sat tight. He well
knew that in such circumstances comments are useless. He rose slowly,
approached the soldier, and, placing his hands on the agitated man's
shoulders, pushed him back into the arm-chair.

"Control yourself, Monsieur, I beg of you," he said in a kind voice. "You

must not upset yourself like this! Be calm!"
CHAPTER PAGE 68

Great tears flowed down the corporal's sunburnt cheeks, and Fandor
considered him, not knowing how to console so great, so spontaneous a
grief.

Amidst his despair, Corporal Vinson stammered out:

"Yes, Monsieur, it's because of a woman--you will understand--you who

write articles in which you say that there should be pity for such
unfortunates as I am--for one is a miserable wretch when a woman has you
in her clutches, and you have no money--and then, with that sort, once you
have started getting mixed up in their affairs, you are jolly well caught--you
have to do as you are told--and always they ask more and more of you....
Ah, Monsieur, the death of Captain Brocq is a frightful disaster! As for
me.... If I have turned traitor--it is their fault."...

The corporal murmured some unintelligible words, pronouncing names

unknown to Fandor; but our journalist was rejoicing more and more at this
outpouring.

Suddenly he got the impression that the mysterious happenings, the obscure
drama he had been on the fringe of for some days past was becoming clear,
that the veil of ignorance was being torn away. Fandor had the sensation of
being a spectator, before whose eyes a curtain was slowly rising which until
then had concealed the scenery of the play.

The corporal continued, stammeringly:

"Ah, Monsieur, you do not know what it is to have for your mistress such a
woman as ... she whom I love, ... such a woman as ... Nichoune! Nichoune!
Ah, all Châlons knows what she is like. Her wickedness is well known ...
but for all that, there is not a man who."...

Fandor interrupted:

"But, my good corporal, why are you telling me all this?"

CHAPTER PAGE 69

"Why, Monsieur," replied Vinson, after a pause and a piteous look,

"because--it's because ... I have sworn to tell you everything before I die!"

"Hang it all! What do you mean to do?" asked Fandor.

The corporal replied simply, but his tone was decisive:

"I mean to kill myself!"

From this moment it was Fandor who, far from wishing to start off for his
train--he had given up any idea of leaving for the South that evening--was
bent on getting from the soldier further details about his life.

Fandor now learned that the corporal had been in the service some fifteen
months. He had been among the first conscripts affected by the new law of
two years' compulsory service, and had been sent to the 214th of the line, in
garrison at Châlons. Owing to his qualities he had been much appreciated
by all his superior officers. As soon as he had finished his classes, he
obtained his corporal's stripes, and in consideration of his very good
handwriting, and also owing to the influence of a commandant, he got a
snug post as secretary in the offices of the fortress itself.

Vinson was thoroughly satisfied with his new situation; for, having been
brought up in his mother's petticoats, and practically the whole of his
adolescence having been passed behind the counter of the maternal
book-shop, he had much more the temperament of a clerk than of an active
out-of-doors man.

The only sport which he enjoyed was riding, riding a bicycle, and the only
luxury he allowed himself was photography.

Time passed. Then, one Sunday evening, he went with some comrades to a
Châlons music-hall.

Vinson's chief companions were some non-commissioned officers, a little

better off than he was.... Without being lavish in their expenditure, these
CHAPTER PAGE 70

young fellows did not reckon up their every penny, and, not wishing to be
behindhand, Vinson had sent to his mother for money again and again, and
she had kept him in funds.

On this particular evening, after the concert, they had invited some of the
performers to supper in a private room, and Vinson, in the course of the
entertainment, was attracted, fascinated, by a tall girl with dyed hair,
emaciated cheeks, and brilliant eyes, whose flashy manners smacking of
some low suburb, had subjugated him completely.

Vinson made an impression on the singer, for she did not respond to the
advances of a swaggering sergeant, reputed generous, but turned her
attentions to the modest corporal.

They talked, and they discovered they were affinities. The result was they
found themselves at daybreak on the deserted boulevard of Châlons. The
corporal's leave did not expire till the evening of the following day.
Nichoune offered him hospitality: they became lovers.

Vinson's heart was in this liaison: he persuaded himself that the chain that
bound them was indissoluble. The singer's idea was to profit by it. Her
demands for money were constant: she harried her lover for money.

Little by little, Vinson's mother cut off supplies: the corporal, incapable of
breaking with Nichoune, ran up debts in the town.

"But," went on Vinson, "this is only the beginning. I have told you this,
Monsieur, with the hope of excusing myself to a certain extent for what I
did later on. My actions were the outcome and consequences of my
difficulties."

"Something serious?" questioned Fandor.

"You shall judge of that, Monsieur."

CHAPTER PAGE 71

Vinson went on with his confession in a firmer tone. Fandor realised that
the corporal had decided to make a clean breast of it.

"It sometimes happened after I had had a scene with Nichoune, and had
quitted her in a fury, that I would go for a long bicycle ride into the
country, taking my shame and rage with me. On a certain Saturday,
bestriding my faithful bike, I went for a spin along the dusty high-road
which runs past the camp. After going at high speed, I dismounted, seated
myself under a tree in the shade, by the side of a ditch, and was falling
asleep. It was summer, the sun was pouring down. A cyclist stopped in
front of me with a punctured tyre. He asked me to lend him the wherewithal
to repair it; and whilst the solution was drying we started talking.

"This individual was about thirty; elegantly dressed; and from the way he
expressed himself, one could see that he was a man accustomed to good
society.

"He told me he was making a tour, and was now doing the neighbourhood
about Reims and Châlons.

"'Not very picturesque country,' I remarked.

"But he retorted;

"'It is interesting--the roads, for example, are complicated!'

"I began to laugh at this, and as he insisted on the difficulty he had to find
his way in these parts, I offered to let him look at my Staff-office map. I
carried a copy in my blazer.... Ah, Monsieur--how well Alfred played his
little comedy! That is what he called himself, at least, that was the name he
was known by--the only name I have ever known. He seemed absolutely
stupefied at the sight of this map, ordinary though as it was, and seemed set
on buying it from me. I did not want to part with it. He offered five francs
for it. I expressed my astonishment that he would not wait till he got to
Châlons, where he could procure one like it for the sum of twenty sous.
CHAPTER PAGE 72

"'Bah!' declared Alfred, 'It gives me pleasure to pay you that sum--it is a
way of thanking you for having lent me the use of your cycle outfit.'

"My faith, Monsieur Fandor, I was too beggared to say 'No!' so I accepted
the money, while making excuses for myself: my plea being that a soldier
is not a rich man.

"I pass over details. It is sufficient to say that when we returned to Châlons
together, we were such good friends that he asked me to dine with him.
When he saw me back to barracks, Alfred pressed a loan on me. I had told
him about Nichoune, and about the pecuniary difficulties I was in, for by
this time, I had full confidence in him. He slipped a twenty-franc piece into
my hand with an air of authority: 'When you become a civilian again,' said
he, 'you will easily be able to pay me back; and besides, to salve your pride,
I am going to ask you shortly to do me a few services. I often have little
things done. I shall entrust the doing of them to you, and shall pay you
accordingly.'...

"You understand, Monsieur Fandor, that there was no reason for refusing,
that I could see, especially as he made the offer very nicely, and that it
came in the nick of time, at the very moment when--I have to admit it--I
would have done anything for money....

"After this we met frequently. Alfred used to send me invitations, and often
he included Nichoune. He never would let me pay for anything; and, I must
confess, that the greater part of the time I should have found it very difficult
indeed to pay a sou!

"We always met at some appointed place outside the town: he would not
stay in Châlons longer than he could help, because he said the air there was
bad for his delicate lungs. He was particularly interested in aviation, and he
was for ever getting me to pilot him about the aviation camp.

"'You who draw so well,' he would say; 'make me a plan of this

apparatus!... Explain to me how these huts are constructed!'
CHAPTER PAGE 73

"He would question me as to the effectives of the regiments, ask me details

as to estimates, statements, and returns which passed through my hands in
the offices.

"Finally, one day, as I had no inkling of what he was really aiming at,
Alfred put me on to it!"...

The corporal stopped. His throat was strained and dry.

Fandor brought him a glass of water, which he swallowed at a gulp. With a

grateful look he continued:

"'Vinson,' said Alfred to me, 'I have confidence in you, and you know how
discreet I am! Very well, I have a superb piece of business in hand which
ought to bring us in a great deal of money. A stranger with whom I came
into contact recently, who is a very good fellow, who has been obliged to
leave his country owing to troubles that were brought on him, possesses a
document, a very interesting one, which would be much valued at the Staff
Headquarters of the Sixth Corps. He needs money and would be willing to
sell it. I tried to buy it from him, but I have not the necessary funds. I was
seeking a solution of the difficulty, when this stranger asked me to procure
him some photographs of the Châlons barracks, in exchange for which he
would give me his document. He needs these photographs for postcard
purposes. If we could supply him with them in three days, not only will he
give us his important paper, but he will pay twenty francs for each proof as
well!'

"Ah, Monsieur Fandor, this story did not hang together, but I was actually
weak enough to believe it! Or at least I tried to make myself believe it.
Besides, this proposal of Alfred's came just in time: I had not a sou to my
name! Nichoune was making a terrible row, and I hardly dared venture into
the streets, I had so many creditors.

"I tried to square matters with my conscience: telling myself that there was
nothing compromising connected with these photographs: in fact, views of
our barracks are to be found in any album on sale, however small.
CHAPTER PAGE 74

"Later on, I learned that this was a method they employed to decoy the
guides, to draw them securely into their toils. They first of all give them
very insignificant things to do, in order not to frighten them, and pay a high
price: it is afterwards that they fasten you up tight. You shall see how."...

Fandor nodded. It was nearly time to catch the train, but he thought no
more of the Côte d'Azur! He was too interested in the corporal's confession,
and felt that by letting him speak he would learn more, he would learn
much. He therefore encouraged Vinson to continue. The corporal asked
nothing better.

"The photographs taken, I rejoined Alfred, who had told me to be sure to

get leave for forty-eight hours, whatever happened. Alfred dragged me to
the railway station; he had two tickets. We went off to Nancy, where, said
he, we should find the purchaser. At Nancy, no one; whoever it was, had
gone to a street in one of the suburbs. We waited in a little flat. Towards
four in the afternoon Alfred said to me: 'Bah! Don't let us hesitate any
longer. If the stranger has not come, it is because he is waiting for us
elsewhere--I know where--let us go to meet him--at Metz!"

"'At Metz!' I cried. 'But we should have to cross the frontier, and I have
not.'...

"Alfred interrupted me, laughing. He opened a press and brought out

civilian clothes, then he took wigs from a drawer, and a false beard. At the
end of half-an-hour we were disguised; an hour later we were in Lorraine.
We left the train there. It was there that, for the first time, I began to be
afraid, for it seemed to me that when leaving the station at Metz, Alfred
exchanged a quick glance with the policeman on duty. Ah, Monsieur
Fandor, how I have regretted this journey! Directly we were in a foreign
country, Alfred's attitude towards me changed: he was no longer the friend,
he was the master. He had got me, the rogue, and jolly tight too!

"'Where are we going?' I asked.

"Alfred chuckled.
CHAPTER PAGE 75

"'By jove! can't you guess?' he replied. 'Why, we are going to the
Wornerstrasse, to visit Major Schwartz of the Intelligence Department.'

"'I shall not go!' I declared.

"Alfred's look was a menace.

"'You will come,' said he, in a low voice. 'Consider! If you refuse, at the
end of five minutes the police will have unmasked you!'...

"There was nothing else to be done. I knew this Intelligence Department

already, by reputation. Alfred had spoken to me about it. It was a vast suite
of rooms on the first floor of a middle-class house, where a number of men
in civilian clothes were at work. They all bore the military stamp. We had
to wait in a large room filled with draughtsmen and typewriters, and on the
wall hung a map, on a huge scale, of the frontier of the Vosges.

"Alfred sent in his name.

"A few minutes afterwards we were ushered into an office. A big man,
seated behind a table heaped with bundles of papers, scrutinised us over his
spectacles: he was bald, and wore a thick square-cut fair beard. He
examined the photographs without a word, threw them carelessly on a set
of shelves, and took from his drawer ten louis in French money, which he
counted out to me. Of any document in exchange there was, of course, no
question! I thought everything was finished, and I was preparing to leave
this abominable place when the big man put his hand on my arm. It was
Major Schwartz himself, the chief of the spy system there--I learned that
later. He said to me in very correct French, with hardly a trace of accent to
betray his origin:

"'Corporal Vinson, we have paid you lavishly for information of no value,

but you will have to serve us better than that, and we shall continue to treat
you well.'
CHAPTER PAGE 76

"I thought I should have fainted when I heard my name pronounced by this
man. It was clear he already knew my rank and name.... He knew much
more than that--as the conversation which followed let me see. He
informed me that he wished to obtain a complete statement of the
organisation of the dirigibles and aeroplanes; he must have the
characteristics of all the apparatus; a list of the Flying Service Corps: he
exacted even more confidential information still--where the aviators and the
aircraft were to be moved if mobilisation took place--the whole bag of
tricks, in fact!"

"And," asked Fandor, hesitating a little, "you have ... supplied him with all
this?"

In a voice so low as to be barely audible, and blushing to the roots of his

hair, Vinson confessed:

"I supplied it all!"

"Is that all you have to say?"

"Not yet, Monsieur--listen:

"Alfred had gone back with me as far as Nancy, where I had put on my
uniform again; then I returned to Châlons quite by myself.

"I asked myself if it would be possible to get clear away from the terrible
set I was mixed up with. Try as I might, I could not manage it. Every day
Alfred harried me, threatened me: I had to obey him. Then almost on the
top of this came the affair of Captain Brocq."

Fandor had been waiting for this. He had foreseen that he was going to
learn what the connecting link was, which united the adventures of
Corporal Vinson with the drama of the Place de l'Étoile, but his
expectations were not fulfilled.... True enough, Vinson, through the
mysterious intervention of his redoubtful friends, was to enter into relations
with Captain Brocq, to whom he had been recommended, how or in what
CHAPTER PAGE 77

terms he did not know.

The business hung fire for several weeks, and this was owing to Vinson
himself, whose moods alternated from one of shrinking disgust to one of
bravado courage.

"At times," said he, "I wished to break with them at any cost, and become
honest once more; but, alas, I was always under the evil influence of
Nichoune, who was a very close friend of Alfred, and the pair of them
encouraged me to tread the traitor's path without faltering. Then, without
breathing a word, I put in a request through the proper channel for a change
of garrison. I hoped to get sent either to the West or the South; above all, I
was bent on leaving the Sixth Corps, on flying from the frontier
neighbourhood, and finishing my service in some district or region where it
would be impossible for them to make me their spy tool. But, I do not know
how--was it through Nichoune?--I expect so, because I had unluckily
confided this secret to her one evening--Alfred got wind of what I was up
to. He flew into a fearful rage. Suddenly he quieted down, and began to
laugh.

"'Ah, my boy, I am going to play a good joke on you!'

"It was a terrible joke--it is that still, Monsieur! Listen to what happened! I
got my exchange all right: it is on that account I have eight days' leave; but
next Monday, November 21st, before midday, I must report to my new
regiment. But this regiment, the 257th Infantry, is in garrison at Verdun!...
You grasp it?"

"I begin to," murmured Fandor.

"At Verdun," continued Vinson, who had risen, and was walking to and fro,
pressing his head between his hands, a prey to an indescribable anguish....
"At Verdun! That is to say at the frontier itself! That means I shall be in the
thick of all that lot--at their mercy!... Oh, the trick had been well thought
out, carefully contrived! I have got away from the wasp's nest only to
tumble into the middle of the swarm! Oh, Monsieur, I am losing my head
CHAPTER PAGE 78

absolutely! I feel that they have me tight, that it is impossible to get free of
them and, what is more, I am afraid of being taken up ... yes. These last few
days at Châlons I have been terrified: I believe that they suspect me, that
they suspect Nichoune, that my superiors have me under supervision!
Directly after the announcement of Captain Brocq's assassination appeared
in the papers, all this descended on me as swiftly as a tempest. Oh, I am
lost! Lost!!... I wished to come and make an open confession of all my
shame to you that, by means of an article in your paper, you may put young
soldiers on their guard, those who, owing to a mad infatuation for some
abominable women, or through need of money, should be disposed to
follow my wretched example some cursed day or other--yes, my damnable
example!"

The corporal fell down in the middle of the room, fell down like a crumpled
rag: he sobbed.

Fandor pitied this miserable creature who had sunk so low. He raised him
gently.

"Vinson," he declared, "you must not die. Remember you have a mother!
Listen! Be brave! Summon your courage! Tell your chiefs
everything--everything!"

The wretched man shook his head.

"Never! Never, Monsieur--I could not do it. Think, Monsieur: it is the vilest
of vile things I have done--I, a soldier of France--of France, Monsieur!...
You spoke of my mother! It is because of her I wish to kill myself! You
must know that she is an Alsatian!... She would go mad--mad, Monsieur, if
she learned that her son has betrayed France!... This evening Corporal
Vinson will no longer exist--it will be well finished with him!"

There was a great silence.

Fandor, with his arms folded and anxious brow, was pacing up and down
his study, seeking a solution of this frightful problem, asking himself what
CHAPTER PAGE 79

was to be done.... He saw that this miserable Vinson was caught in the
wheels of a terrible machine, from which it was almost impossible to snatch
him into safety. Nevertheless, his conscience revolted at the idea that he
should do nothing to avert this wretched lad's suicide. He must stop
Vinson--he must certainly save him from himself at any price, save him
doubly!

Then Fandor saw further than this.

He perceived that good may come out of evil: perhaps through Vinson and
his relations with this nefarious nest of spies, they would succeed in
clearing up the dark mystery surrounding the death of Captain Brocq.
Evidently all these happenings were interconnected!...

With his mind's eye, Fandor saw this foreign spy system under the form of
an immense--a vast spider's web. Could one but lay hands on the originator
of the initial thread, or the master-spider himself, then they could strike at
the extreme ends of this evil tissue.

*****

Fandor admonished Vinson for a long time. Our journalist was now
eloquent, now persuasive: he heaped argument on argument, he appealed to
his self-respect, to duty! When at last he saw that the young corporal
hesitated, that a faint gleam of hope appeared, that a vague desire for
rehabilitation was born in him, he stopped short and demanded abruptly:

"Vinson, are you still bent on killing yourself?"

The corporal communed with himself a moment, closed his eyes, and,
without a touch of insincerity, replied in a steady voice:

"Yes, I have decided to do it."

"In that case," said Fandor, "will you look on the deed as done, and take it
that you are no longer in existence?"
CHAPTER PAGE 80

The corporal stared at Fandor, speechless, absolutely dumbfounded. Fandor

made his idea more definite.

"From this moment you do not exist any more, you are nothing, you are no
longer Corporal Vinson."...

"And then?"...

But Fandor must have a definite promise.

"Is this agreed to?"...

"I agree."

"Swear it!"

"I swear it!"

"Very well, Vinson, you now belong to me, you are my property, my
chattel; I am going to give you my instructions, and they must be strictly
obeyed, carried out!"

The miserable soldier seemed crushed to the earth; but with a movement of
his head he signified that he was prepared to do whatever the journalist
ordered.

VII

THE SECOND BUREAU

As early as nine o'clock that morning, there was unusual activity in the
Second Bureau of the Headquarters Staff.

The Second Bureau!

CHAPTER PAGE 81

This formidable office, whose official designation, Bureau of Statistics, did

not deceive anyone, occupied premises in the Ministry of War. Modest as
to appearance, this Bureau was located on the third floor of one of the
oldest buildings in the rue Saint Dominique. The departments of the Second
Bureau impinged on a long corridor, and had taken possession of quite half
the floor in the right wing of the building.

Anyone authorised to enter here would find a fairly large outer room, where
about a dozen secretaries would be working at wooden desks. These
secretaries are changed frequently, so that they may not get to know too
much about the work passing through their hands, though they are seldom
given anything of an important confidential nature to deal with. There is a
vast square room adjoining, reserved for the so-called "statistics." This
immense apartment is abundantly lighted by two large windows and a large
table of white wood stands in the centre of the room. Occasionally it is
heaped with papers, but generally it is clear, and only maps are to be seen,
maps of all parts of France and of foreign countries also, marked with red
pencil, ornamented with cabalistic signs, thickly sprinkled with notes.
Placed against the walls are the desks of the officers of this department, two
captains and two lieutenants. Next to this room is the small office where
Commandant Dumoulin, the chief assistant, is generally to be found. Fixed
into the wall, on the right-hand side, is the one remarkable thing in this
most ordinary looking office: here is the famous steel press, of which
Commandant Dumoulin alone possesses the key, and in which are
enclosed, they say, the most secret instructions relating to National Defence
and Mobilisation.

This office communicates on one side with the office of statistics, and on
the opposite side with a sitting-room, soberly furnished with arm-chairs and
sofas covered with green velvet; on the walls is a green paper; one picture
only adorns this solemn reception-room, whose doors are tightly closed to
air and sound--the portrait of the president of the Republic. Here are
received visitors of mark, who have information of the highest importance
to communicate. Here conversations can be freely carried on, for thick
window curtains, door curtains and carpet deaden sound.
CHAPTER PAGE 82

At the extreme end of the corridor is the office of the commander-in-chief,

Colonel Hofferman. At once elegantly and comfortably furnished, this
office is quite unlike the others: there is more of the individual than the
official here. An array of telephones keeps the colonel in touch with the
various departments of the Ministry, with the Municipality, with the
Governor of Paris. In a recess is a telegraphic installation.

This able infantry officer is a man of great distinction. He has directed the
delicate service of "statistics" with much tact and discretion for the past
three years. His fair complexion, blue eyes, blonde hair betray his Alsatian
origin. This handsome bachelor, verging on the fifties, is very much a man
of the world, is received in the most exclusive sets, and has been known to
carry on the most intimate conversations with charming ladies in his office.
Was the subject of these talks National Defence? Who knows?

*****

In the officers' room there was animated talk.

"Then it is an artilleryman again?" asked Lieutenant Armandelle, a regular

colossus with a brick-red complexion, who had passed long years in Africa
at the head of a detachment of Zouaves.

Captain Loreuil was sharpening a pencil. He stopped, and, throwing

himself back in his chair, replied with a smile:

"No, my dear fellow, this time it is to be a sapper." Looking over his

spectacles he softly hummed the old refrain of Thérèse:

"Nothing is as sacred to a sapper!"

Armandelle burst out laughing.

"Ah, my boy, come what will, you meet it with a smile!"

CHAPTER PAGE 83

"By Jove, old man, why be gloomy?" answered the lively captain. "We can
only live once! Let us make the best use of our time, then! Why not be
jolly?"

Judging by his looks, Captain Loreuil had followed his own advice.
Clean-shaven, plump of face, stout of figure, he wore glasses, large round
glasses set in gold frames, for he was exceptionally short-sighted. His
colleagues had nicknamed him "The Lawyer." It was easy to see that he
was much more at home in mufti than in uniform. He would say, laughing:

"I have all the looks of a territorial, and that is unfortunate, considering I
belong to the active contingent."

Loreuil was one of the most highly appreciated officers of the Second
Bureau. Had anyone examined the hands of "The Lawyer" just then, he
would have seen that they were roughened and had horny lumps on them of
recent formation. His fingers, all twisted out of shape at the tips, seamed
with scars, led one to suppose that the captain was not entirely a man of
sedentary office life. In fact, he had just returned after a fairly long absence.
He had disappeared for six months. It was rumoured in the departments that
he had been one of a gang of masons who were constructing a fort on a
foreign frontier, a fort, the plans of which he had got down to the smallest
detail. But questions had not been asked, and the captain had not, of course,
given his colleagues the slightest hint, the smallest indication of how those
six months had been passed. Besides, unforeseen journeys, sudden
disappearances, unexpected returns, mysterious missions, made up the
ordinary lot of those attached to the Second Bureau.

The old keeper of the records, Gaudin, who was methodically sorting a
voluminous correspondence which was to be laid before Commandant
Dumoulin, put a question to Armandelle:

"Lieutenant, is it not a captain of the engineers who is to take the place of

this poor Captain Brocq?"
CHAPTER PAGE 84

"True enough, Gaudin! His nomination was signed by the minister

yesterday. We expect him this morning at half-past nine. What time is it
now?

"A quarter past nine, lieutenant!"

"He will be punctual."

"Why, of course!" cried Captain Loreuil. "That is why I caught sight of the
chief just now. He is earlier than usual. What is the name of the
new-comer?"

"Muller," said Armandelle. "He comes from Belfort," cried Loreuil:

"I know what Hofferman will say to him--'My dear Captain, you enter this
day the house of silence and discretion.'"

Loreuil turned to Gaudin.

"Where is Lieutenant de Loubersac this morning?"

"Why, Captain," explained the old keeper of records, "you must know very
well that he has been ordered to act as escort to the King of Greece."

"Confound Loubersac! He goes to all the entertainments."

Steps were heard, some brief words were spoken in the adjacent corridor,
an orderly opened the door and saluted.

"Captain Muller has arrived, Monsieur!"

Extended very much at his ease on a comfortable couch, Colonel

Hofferman was polishing his nails, whilst Commandant Dumoulin stood
respectfully before him tightly encased in his sober light infantry uniform.
Dumoulin was fully alive to the importance of his position: was he not the
repository of the famous key which unlocked the steel press?
CHAPTER PAGE 85

The colonel looked up at his subordinate.

"You are going to put Captain Muller in the way of things here,
Commandant, are you not?"

"Yes, Colonel!"

"It will be a good thing to have a talk with Captain Muller. He comes just at
the moment when we have some very nasty business in
hand--difficult--very worrying.... That's so, Dumoulin?"

"True, Colonel! That's a fact."

Hofferman pressed a bell. An orderly appeared.

"Ask Captain Muller to kindly step in here."

Almost at once Captain Muller entered, saluted, and remained standing at

some distance from his chief.

"Take this arm-chair, Captain." Hofferman was amiable politeness itself.

Dumoulin, rather scandalised that the colonel should encourage such
familiarity in a subordinate, was on the point of retiring discreetly. The
colonel made him sit down also.

Hofferman turned to Captain Muller.

"You come amongst us, Monsieur, at a sad moment. You know, of course,
that you are Captain Brocq's successor? A most valuable officer, to whom
we were greatly attached."

Captain Muller bent his head. He murmured:

"We were men of the same year, comrades at the school--Brocq and I."

Hofferman continued:
CHAPTER PAGE 86

"Ah, well, you are to take on the work begun by Captain Brocq.... Now tell
me, Captain, what importance do you attach to the orders regarding the
roll-call, the mustering and distribution of the mechanics and operatives of
the artillery in the various corps--from the point of view of mobilisation,
that is?"

"It is of the very greatest importance, Colonel."

"Good!"

Hofferman paused. He continued, in a low tone and with a grave air:

"In the newspapers--oh, in ambiguous terms, but clear enough to the

initiated--the public has been given to understand that not only has an
important document been stolen from Captain Brocq before, or at the time
of his assassination, or after it, but that this document was none other than
the distribution chart of the concealed works in and about the girdle of forts
on the east of Paris.... This is inaccurate. Captain, what has disappeared is
the distribution list of our artillery mechanics! That is much more serious!...
However, for some time past we have had under consideration a
rearrangement scheme. We are going to take advantage of the
disappearance of the document in question, Document Number 6--keep that
number in mind--we are going to draw up a new plan for the mobilisation
of the rear-guards. You are to be entrusted with this, and I count on your
devoting your whole time and attention to it."

Captain Muller understood that the conversation was at an end. He rose,

saying quietly:

"You may count on me, Colonel."

He was then given his official instructions.

Hofferman left the couch, and, dropping his nail polisher, came towards the
captain with outstretched hands.
CHAPTER PAGE 87

"My father knew yours in bygone days," he cried genially; "both were
natives of Colmar."

"Why, is that so, indeed, Colonel?" cried the captain, delighted to find
himself among friends.

Hofferman nodded.

"All will go well, be sure of it. I know you take your work seriously.... We
have excellent reports of you--you are married, are you not?"

Muller nodded in the affirmative.

"Excellent!" declared the colonel. Pointing a threatening finger at Muller.

"You know our standing orders here! Many acquaintances--very few

intimates: no mistress."

The colonel did not remain alone in his office long. He sent for Lieutenant
de Loubersac. With a soldier's punctuality he appeared before his chief. He
was in uniform.

"Nothing unusual this morning, Loubersac?" questioned Hofferman, gazing

complacently at the soldier, superb in his magnificent uniform, an elegant
and splendid specimen of a cavalry officer.

"Nothing, Colonel. The arrival of the King of Greece has been perfectly
carried out."

"The crowd?"

"Oh, indifferent on the whole; come to have a look at him out of curiosity."

"Ah, no King of Spain affair?"

"No, no! Out of that I got this scar on my forehead."

CHAPTER PAGE 88

"Well," cried the colonel, "it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good! You
will get the cross all the quicker!"

Lieutenant de Loubersac smiled.

Hofferman continued:

"My dear fellow, ... you know ... the vanished document!... It's extremely
important--it will have to be found!"

"Good, Colonel!"

"Have you just now a particularly sharp agent?... Shrewd?"

"Yes, Colonel," said de Loubersac, after a moment's reflection.

"Who is he?"

"The man engaged on the V---- affair."

"When shall you see him?"

"This afternoon, Colonel. We have an appointment for three-thirty."

"The worst of it is this affair is making no end of talk--scandal--it's the very

devil and all! Some fools of papers who deal in scandal are scaring the
public with rumours of war: they speak of the eventual rupture of
diplomatic relations. The financial market is unsteady--the Jews are selling
as hard as they can, and that is disquieting, for those fellows have a quicker
scent than any one.... Lieutenant, it is urgent: set your agent to work at
once! He must act with discretion, of course, but he must act as quickly as
possible--it is urgent!"

"And what are the conditions, Colonel?"

After a moment's reflection, Hofferman replied:

CHAPTER PAGE 89

"You must make and get the best conditions you can."

*****

It was noon, and twelve was striking. The vast ministerial premises, where
silence had reigned till then, were filled with murmurs and the sharp sound
of voices: there were hurrying footsteps on the stairs, doors banged: the
offices were emptying for a couple or hours.

"Ah, ha!" cried Captain Loreuil, jamming an enormous soft hat down on his
head till it all but covered his eyes. This gave him the appearance, either of
an artist of sorts or of a seller of chestnuts! Now behold the handsomest
cavalier of France and Navarre!...

And he struck up, in a clear voice:

"Ah, how I would love this cuirassier If I were still a demoiselle."

Henri de Loubersac, who had just collided with the captain, burst into
laughter, and warmly shook hands with him.

*****

A limited number of people, some curious, others merely idle, were

standing motionless in the Zoological Gardens. They were lining the
palisade which surrounds the rocky basin where half a dozen crocodiles
were performing their evolutions.

Besides children and nursemaids and governesses, there were also

poverty-stricken creatures in rags, some students, a workman or two, the
inevitable telegraph boy who was loitering on the way instead of hastening
onwards with the telegrams, and, noticeably, a fair young man, smart, in
tight-fitting overcoat and wearing a bowler hat. He had been standing there
some ten minutes, and was giving but scant attention to the saurians. He
was casting furtive glances around him, as though looking for someone.
CHAPTER PAGE 90

If he were awaiting the arrival of some member of the fair sex, it hardly
seemed the place for a love-tryst, this melancholy Zoological Gardens,
misty, with the leaves falling, gradually baring the trees at the approach of
winter.

A uniform suddenly appeared in one of the paths: it was a sergeant

belonging to the commissariat department, who was passing rapidly, bent
on business.

Directly the fair young man saw him he left his place by the palisade and
hid himself behind a tree, muttering:

"Decidedly one has to be constantly on the defensive!" He unbuttoned his

coat and looked at his watch.

"Twenty-five minutes past three! He will not be long now!"

*****

Two hundred yards from this spot, before the chief entrance to the Gardens,
a crowd had gathered; inveterate idlers jostling one another in the circle
they had formed round a sordid individual, a miserable old man with a long
white beard, who was drawing discordant sounds from an old accordion.

Some kindly housewives, some shock-headed errand-boys, were exercising

their lungs to the utmost, trying to help the musician to play according to
time and tune.

But, in spite of the goodwill about him, the poor man could not manage to
play one single bar correctly, and his helpers bawled in vain.

At the end of a few minutes the accordion player gave up his attempts, and,
taking his soft and ancient hat in his hand, he put in practice a much easier
exercise: he made the round of the company to collect their offerings. The
crowd melted like magic, leaving him solitary, hat in hand, and with only a
few sous in it for his pains. With a resigned air, the man pocketed his
CHAPTER PAGE 91

meagre takings, then, pushing the accordion up on his back where it was
held in place by a strap, he walked, bent, staggering, towards the gate. He
passed through it and entered the Gardens.

The old man went to a secluded seat behind the museum. Almost
immediately he saw a well-dressed young man approaching, the very same
who some ten minutes before had been staring at the crocodiles with but
lukewarm interest.

The young man seated himself beside the old accordion player without
seeming to notice him. Then, in an almost inaudible voice, as if speaking to
himself, the young man uttered these words:

"Fine weather! The daisy is going to bloom."

At once the accordion player added.

"And the potatoes are going to sprout!"

They identified each other.

The two men were alone in this deserted corner of the garden; they drew
closer together and began to converse.

"Are things still going well, Vagualame?"

"My faith, Monsieur Henri, that depends."...

The old accordion player cast a rapid penetrating glance at the countenance
of his companion: it was done with the instinctive ease of habit.

The young man was leaning forward, tracing circles in the sand with his
stick.

"What is the position, Vagualame?" he asked briefly.

CHAPTER PAGE 92

"I have no more money, Lieutenant."

The young man sat upright and looked at the old man angrily.

"What has come to you? There is no lieutenant here--I am M. Henri, and

nothing else! Do I trouble myself to find out who you are, Vagualame?"

"Oh," protested the old man, "that's enough! Do not be afraid, I understand
my business: you know my devotion! Unfortunately it costs a great deal!"

"Yes," replied Henri de Loubersac--for he it was--"Yes, I know you are

always hard up."

"Shall I have money soon?" insisted Vagualame.

"That depends.... How are things going?"

"Which things?"

The lieutenant showed impatience. Was Vagualame's stupid, silly manner

intentional?

Assuredly, that handsome fellow, that dashing soldier, Henri de Loubersac,

knew nothing of this same Vagualame's relations with Bobinette, nor his
attitude towards that mysterious accomplice of his whom he had just
assassinated, or pretended to have assassinated, Captain Brocq. Thus
Vagualame had two strings to his bow, serving at one and the same time the
Second Bureau and, most probably, its bitterest adversaries.

"Vagualame, you really are a fool," went on de Loubersac. "What I refer to

is the V. affair: how does it stand--what has been done?"

The old man began to laugh.

"Peuh! Nothing at all! Another rigmarole in which women are mixed up!
You know the little singer of Châlons, called Nichoune? She made her first
CHAPTER PAGE 93

appearance at La Fère, and since then the creature has roved through the
rowdy dancing-saloons of Picardy, of the Ardennes--you must know her
well, Monsieur Henri."

The lieutenant interrupted him.

"All this does not mean anything, Vagualame!"

"Pardon! Nichoune is the mistress of Corporal V.--he is on leave, the

corporal is."...

"I know, he is in Paris."

"Well, then, what do you wish me to do?"

"You must go to Châlons and make an exhaustive enquiry into the relations
of V.... with Nichoune. V. was eaten up with debts."

"He has settled them," remarked Vagualame.

"Ah!" Lieutenant de Loubersac was rather taken aback.

"Well, find out how and why. Get me information also about someone
called Alfred."

"I know him, Lieutenant,--pardon--Monsieur Henri--a--letter-box--a

go-between."

"We must know exactly the nature of the relations between Corporal V. and
the late Captain Brocq."

These last words particularly interested Vagualame: he drew nearer still to

de Loubersac, tapping him on the knee.

"Tell me, has anything new come to light in that affair?"

CHAPTER PAGE 94

Henri de Loubersac moved away, and looked the old accordion player up
and down.

"Do not meddle with what does not concern you."

"Good! Good! That's all right!" The old fellow pretended to be confused,
nevertheless a gleam of joy shone beneath his eyelids.

There was a moment's silence. Henri de Loubersac was gnawing his

moustache. Vagualame, who was stealthily watching him, said to himself:

"As for you, my fine fellow, I am waiting for you! You have a fine big
morsel for me! I see what you are driving at!"...

True enough! Suddenly, between him and the lieutenant there was an
exchange of hurried words in a low tone.

"Vagualame, would you like a highly paid commission?"

"Yes, Monsieur Henri. Is it difficult to earn?"

"Naturally."

Vagualame insisted:

"Dangerous, as well?"

"Perhaps!"

"How much will you pay?"

Without hesitation, the officer said:

"Twenty-five thousand francs."...

CHAPTER PAGE 95

Equally without hesitation, but putting on an offended air, Vagualame

retorted.

"Nothing doing!"

"Thirty thousand?"

The old man murmured: "What the devil is it a question of?"

Lowering his voice still more, de Loubersac added:

"It is a lost document!... Perhaps it is a case of theft ... a list of the

distribution of artillery operatives--Document Number Six!"

"But," cried Vagualame, who feigned sudden comprehension of this

document's importance, "but that is equivalent to a complete plan of
mobilisation?"...

Exasperated, Lieutenant Henri interrupted the old fellow:

"I do not ask for your opinion as to its signification and value. Can you
recover it?"

Vagualame murmured some incomprehensible words.

"What are you saying?" questioned de Loubersac, who, growing more and
more exasperated, shook him by the sleeve.

"Gently, Monsieur Henri, gently, if you please," whined the old man, "I
was only thinking what is always the case: 'Look for the woman!'"

"The disappearance of the document," continued de Loubersac, "is

coincident with the death of Captain Brocq--so it is supposed."...

He stopped and stared at Vagualame, who was rubbing his hands,

simulating an extreme satisfaction, and mumbling with an air of enjoyment:
CHAPTER PAGE 96

"Women! Always the dear women!... Ah, these dear and damnable
women!"

He resumed his serious expression: his manner was decided.

"Monsieur Henri," he declared, "I will find it; but the price is fifty thousand
francs."

"What!" De Loubersac was startled.

Vagualame raised his hand as if taking heaven to witness that his statement
was final.

"Not a sou more! Not a sou less! Fifty thousand is the price: fifty
thousand!"

Henri de Loubersac hesitated a second, then concluded the interview.

"Agreed to!... Be quick about it!... Adieu!"

VIII

A SINGER OF THE HALLS.

"Nichoune!... Nichoune!... Nichoune!"

"Be off with you, Léonce! To the door!"

It was a regular hubbub! An uproar! It increased!

Léonce the comedian had to cut short his monologue!

The little concert-hall at Châlons was at its liveliest. There was not a single
seat to be had. It was a mixed audience of soldiers and civilians, and the
uniform did not fraternise too well with the garb of the working-man!
CHAPTER PAGE 97

This low-class concert-hall was frequented by soldiers, who, out on leave,

would visit the taverns, the beer-houses, and finish the evening on the
squalid benches of this Eldorado of the provinces.

On this particular evening these critical gentlemen of the Army were less
satisfied than ever. There had been three "first appearances," of poor
quality, and they accused the management of having filled the hall with
civilians in order to secure a good reception for these mediocre performers.
Hussars and cuirassiers joined forces and made a frightful uproar.

"Take the comic man away!"

"He shall not sing!"

Then the entire audience shouted one name, demanded one performer only.

"Nichoune!... Nichoune!... Nichoune!"

Nichoune was indeed the star of the company!

She was rather pretty, her face was intelligent, and what was rare enough in
that hall, her tone was almost pure and true, and, above all, she sang
popular ditties so that the audience could join in the chorus. As usual, after
every singer, male or female, there were loud demands for Nichoune. Her
admirers were merciless: they had no consideration for her fatigue: they
would have kept her on the platform from eight o'clock till midnight!

The manager rushed to Nichoune's dressing-room.

"Come! Come at once! They will smash up everything if you do not hurry
on."

Nichoune got up.

"Ah, ha! If I don't get a rise after this--well, I shall be off! You will see!
They will have to have me back, too!"
CHAPTER PAGE 98

The manager showed by a shrug of the shoulders that this was a matter of
profound indifference to him.

"Come on to the platform, my dear! And be quick about it!"

Nichoune raced down the stairs and appeared before the clamouring crowd
panting. At sight of her, calm succeeded storm: the idol was going to sing!

Nichoune swaggered down the stage and, planting herself close to the
footlights, flung the title of her song at the delighted audience in strident
tones.

"Les Inquiets!... Music by Delmet.... Words also.... It is I who sing it!"

Whilst Nichoune began her song, hands on hips, she scrutinised her
audience, bestowing little smiles on her particular admirers. She could not
have been in her best form, because when about to start her third verse she
suffered a lapse of memory, hesitated, and started the fourth. This passed
unnoticed by her audience, who gave her a vociferous ovation at the close.

"The programme! the programme!" they yelled.

As a rule Nichoune would disdainfully refuse to go down among the

audience. This evening, however, she nodded a "Yes," and, taking a pile of
little programmes from the wings, she descended the few steps which led
from the stage to the body of the hall. Twenty hands were outstretched to
help her down. She pushed them aside with mocking looks. Shouts of
admiration, compliments, clamourous declarations of love were rained on
her by the soldiers she had charmed and now swung past with a provocative
swish of her skirt and a smile of disdain.

Nichoune went on her way, bent on getting rid of her burden of

programmes with all speed.

Just as another singer appeared on the platform, Nichoune reached the last
row of chairs, and was about to leave, when she heard her name uttered in a
CHAPTER PAGE 99

low voice by a man enveloped in a large cloak.

He was standing, and was leaning against the wall at the extreme end of the
concert-room: he was an aged man.

Nichoune hesitated, searching with her eyes for the person who had called
her in a low, penetrating voice. She was about to continue on her way,
when the old fellow half opened his cloak for an instant to give her a
glimpse of a bulky kind of a box which was slung across his chest.

Immediately the singer went straight towards him.

"A programme?" she asked him in a loud voice.

He gave an affirmative nod for all the world to see: then whispered low.

"Go home directly the concert is over! I must speak to you!"

"Very good," replied the singer in a submissive tone.

Then aloud she queried:

"You are a musician, are you?"

The man in the cloak gave answer audibly:

"Yes, my dear, I am a musician also, but not of your sort! It's not gaiety I
deal in!" With that, the unknown displayed an accordion which was slung
across his chest.

*****

Nichoune hurried to her dressing-room. She must get away before her
admirers demanded her reappearance on the platform. The old man quitted
the establishment. Stepping out of the vestibule, dimly lighted by a
flickering jet of gas, he strode along the narrow and tortuous streets of
CHAPTER PAGE 100

Châlons at a great pace. This pedestrian seemed out of humour: he marched

along, bent beneath the weight of his accordion, tapping the road violently
with the point of his long climbing stick. Taking a circuitous route, he at
last reached a sort of little inn. It appeared a poor kind of a place, but clean.
The old fellow entered with a resolute air. The porter, half asleep, offered
him a candle which he lit with a twist of paper, kindled at the gas-jet. The
old man mounted the stairs to his room and closed the door carefully.
Having satisfied himself that the window shutters were fastened, he took
off his cloak, lit his lamp, drew up a chair, and leaned his elbow on the
table. The light fell on his face, and it was easy to recognise the man who
had spoken to the mistress of Corporal Vinson: he was none other than
Vagualame, the beggar-assassin.

Before long there was a knock at the door.

"Who is there?"

"I ... Nichoune!"

Vagualame rose and opened to her.

"Come in, my dear!" Vagualame was now the amiable friend.

He looked with delight at the pretty little face of his visitor.

"As pretty as ever, my dear! Prettier than ever!" he cried.

He stopped flattery: the singer evidently disliked it. She seated herself on
the edge of a sofa and stared at him.

"I don't suppose you have come to Châlons just to tell me that! Nothing
serious?"

Vagualame shrugged his shoulders.

"No, no! Why, in Heaven's name, are you always so frightened?"

CHAPTER PAGE 101

"That's all very well. It's jolly dangerous, let me tell you."

"Dangerous!" repeated Vagualame contemptuously. "Absurd! You are

joking! It's dangerous for imbeciles--not for anyone else! Not a soul would
ever suspect that pretty Nichoune is the 'letter-box'--the intermediary
between me and 'Roubaix.'"

"You are going to give me something for Roubaix again?" Nichoune did
not look as if Vagualame's assertion had relieved her fears.

Vagualame evaded a direct answer.

"You have not seen him for a week?"

"Roubaix? No."...

"And Nancy?"

"Nor Nancy."

"Well," said he, after a moment's reflection, "that does not matter in the
least! I can now tell you that Belfort will certainly pass this way to-morrow
morning."...

"Belfort? But he is not due then!"

"Belfort has no fixed time," replied Vagualame sharply. "I have already
told you that Belfort is his own master: his is a divisional."

"A divisional? What exactly is a divisional?" demanded the singer.

"Now you are asking questions," objected Vagualame. His tone was harsh.
"That is not allowed, Nichoune! I have told you so before.... What you do
not know you must not try to discover.... I myself do not know all the ins
and outs of the organisation!"
CHAPTER PAGE 102

He continued in a less severe tone:

"In any case Belfort passes this way to-morrow between eleven o'clock and
noon.... He does not know me--is not aware of my existence.... It is through
an indirect course that I learned he was coming; also that he would have
something to say to you.... Will you, therefore, hand him this envelope?"

Vagualame drew from the inside pocket of his short coat a large packet
sealed with red wax.

"Be very careful! This document is important--has been difficult to

obtain--extremely difficult!... On no account must it go astray!... Tell
Belfort that it must be handed over as quickly as possible.... Well?"

Nichoune did not take the packet Vagualame was holding out to her. She
remained seated, her gaze fixed on the tips of her shoes, her hands buried in
her muff.

"Well, what is it? What are you waiting for?" Vagualame repeated.

At this Nichoune blazed out:

"What the matter is? Why, that I have had enough of all this: I don't want
any more of it! Not if I know it! It's too dangerous!"

Vagualame appeared stupefied.

"What, little one?" he asked very gently. "You do not wish to be our
faithful letter-box any more?"

"No!"

"You do not want to hand this over to Belfort?"

"No, no! A hundred times no!" Nichoune shook her head vigorously.
CHAPTER PAGE 103

"But why?"

"Because ... because I don't want to do it any more! There!"

"Come now, Nichoune, what is your reason? You must have one."

This time the singer got up as though she would go off at once.

"Reasons?" she cried. "Look here, Vagualame, it's better to tell you the
truth! Very well, then, spying is not my strong point! It is three months
since I began it--since you enticed me into it ... and life is not worth
living.... I am in a constant state of terror--I am afraid of being caught at it.
They say: 'Do this--Do that!' I am always seeing new agents ... you
come--you go--you disappear--it's maddening! I have already broken with
my lover ... with Vinson! I don't want to be on such terms with anyone
mixed up in your spying, I can tell you!... In the first place, there's
something wrong with my heart, and to live in such a perpetual state of
terror is very bad for me ... so you have got to understand, Vagualame--I
say it straight out--I don't go on with it.... I would rather go to the
magistrate and put myself completely outside this abominable
business--there! That's all about it!"

It was impossible to mistake the meaning of these decisive words. Here was
not the spy who sought to increase his pay by threatening to reveal
everything; it was the spy who is obsessed with the fear of being taken,
who no longer wishes to continue his dreadful work--to follow his
nefarious calling.

Vagualame gave no sign of surprise.

"Listen, my pretty one! You are at perfect liberty to do what seems good to
you, and if you have just come in for some money!"...

"No one has left me any money," interrupted Nichoune.

CHAPTER PAGE 104

"Oh, well," replied Vagualame, "if you despise the nice sum I bring you
every month, that's your business! But I don't suppose you want to leave
your old comrade in a fix, do you?"

Nichoune hesitated.

"What do you want me to do now?" she asked.

"A very little thing, my pretty one! If you will not go in with us any longer,
you are perfectly free to leave us, I repeat it, but don't leave us in the lurch
just at this moment! This paper is of the very greatest importance ... be
nice--take it, and give it to Belfort--I will not bother you again after this."...

Nichoune held out her hand, but it was with an ill grace.

"Oh, all right!" said she. "Give me the thing! All the same, you know now
that it is the very last time you are to apply to me!"

Then she added, laughing in her usual hail-fellow-well-met way, and

pressing the old fellow's hand as she moved towards the door:

"I don't mean to be the letter-box of Châlons any more: that's ended--the
last collection has been made!"

Nichoune departed. Vagualame wished her a cordial "Good night"; then,

locking the door, he became absorbed in his reflections.

*****

Towards five o'clock in the afternoon of the day following his private talk
with Nichoune, Vagualame accosted the proprietor of a little inn situated at
the extreme end of the town, and far removed from the tavern where he had
passed the night.

"Mademoiselle Nichoune is not in, is she?"

CHAPTER PAGE 105

"No, my good man--what do you want with her?"

Vagualame gave a little laugh.

"Has she not told you, then, that she was expecting someone from her part
of the country to call on her?"

The innkeeper was leaning carelessly against the wall. He straightened

himself a little.

"Yes, Mademoiselle Nichoune has told us that an old musician would call
to see her this afternoon, and that we must ask him to wait."...

"Ah, she's a good, kind little thing! How courageous! What a worker!"
Vagualame seemed to be speaking to himself.

"You know her very well, then?" asked the puzzled innkeeper.

"I should think I did!" protested the old fellow. "Why, it was I who taught
her to sing!... Do you think she will be long, my little Nichoune?"

"I don't fancy so! If you would like to come in and wait for her in her room,
you will find it at the end of the corridor. It's not locked.... You will find
some picture papers on her table."

"Thank you, kind sir," said Vagualame after a moment's hesitation. "I will
go in and rest for a few minutes," and, hobbling along, he gained the
singer's room. The moment he was inside, and the door safely shut, his
whole attitude changed. He looked eagerly about him.

"If there is anything, where is it likely to be?"... He considered. "Why, in

the mattress, of course!"

He drew from some hiding-place in his garments a long needle, and began
to probe the mattress of Nichoune's bed very carefully.
CHAPTER PAGE 106

"Ha, ha!" cried he, suddenly. The needle had come in contact with
something difficult to penetrate. "I wager it's what I am after!"

Vagualame slipped his hand, spare and delicately formed, under the
counterpane.

"Little idiot!" he exclaimed in a satisfied tone. "She has not even hidden it
inside the mattress! She has just slipped it in between the palliasse, and the
hair mattress on top--why, she's a child!"

He drew out two envelopes and eagerly read the addresses.

"Oh," cried he, "this is more serious than I thought!... Action must be taken
at once!... Nichoune! Nichoune! you are about to play a dangerous game, a
game which is likely to cost you dear!"

On the first of the envelopes Vagualame had read one word:

"Belfort."

This was the document he had handed over to the actress the night before.
After all, he was not much astonished to find that Nichoune had not passed
the letter on. But the other envelope bore an address which Vagualame
gazed at reflectively.

"Monsieur Bonnett, Police Magistrate."

"She is selling us, by Jove!" he murmured. "There's not a doubt of it! The
little wretch!... She has scruples, has she!... Her conscience reproaches her!
I am going to give her a lesson--one of my own sort!"

Vagualame was turning the letter over and over.

"I must know its contents," he went on.... "Ah, I shall manage to get hold of
this little paper, to-morrow morning, when."...
CHAPTER PAGE 107

Vagualame's murmured monologue came to an abrupt conclusion.

"That's her voice!" he exclaimed. With the nimbleness of youth he put back
the two letters, rapidly drew from his pocket a bundle of letters; with
marvellous ability forced open a table drawer, and mixed them with others
Nichoune had placed there.

"There, my little dear!" said he, aloud. "There's something to do honour to

your memory!"

He closed the drawer in a second. He had barely time to seat himself in an

arm-chair near his accordion, lying on the floor, when Nichoune entered.

"Good day!" cried she.

Vagualame pretended to wake up with a start.

"Ha, ha! Good day, Nichoune! Tell me, you have not seen Belfort? Eh?"

"How do you know that?" demanded Nichoune, on the defensive. She

looked surprised.

"I have just met him.... He told me that he had not come across you at the
usual meeting-place."

Nichoune lowered her head.

"I thought I was being followed ... so, as you can understand, I did not go."

Vagualame nodded approval.

"Good! Quite right! After all, it is not otherwise of importance. You must
give me back my envelope now!"

"You want it?"

CHAPTER PAGE 108

"Why, of course!"

Nichoune hesitated a second.

"Just fancy, Vagualame, I took the precaution to hide it between my two

mattresses! Wait!... Here it is!"

Nichoune held out his letter.

"Thank you, my dear!"

Vagualame looked as if the returning of the document was a matter of the

most perfect indifference to him. He gazed hard at Nichoune--stared so
fixedly at her that she demanded:

"Whatever possesses you to stare at me like that?"

"I am thinking how pretty you are!"

"Well, I never! You are becoming quite complimentary!"

"It's no flattery. I think you are very pretty, Nichoune, but your hands! They
are not pretty!"

The singer laughed and held out her little hands.

"What is there about them you have to find fault with?"

"They are red.... It astonishes me that a woman like you does not know how
to make them white!... Don't you know what to do to them?"

"No! What must I do?"

"Why," retorted the old musician, "the very first thing you have to do is as
simple as A B C! All you have to do is to tie up your hands every night
with a ribbon, and so keep them raised above your head!"...
CHAPTER PAGE 109

"How? I don't understand!"

"It's like this! You stick a nail into the wall ... and then you manage things
so that you keep your hands up-raised the whole night through.... You will
see then ... your hands will be as white as lilies in the morning.... White as
lilies!"

Nichoune was extremely interested.

"Is that true? I shall try it this very night! White, like lilies, you say?... And
you have to sleep with your hands stuck up in the air!... I shall try it--shall
begin to-night."

A few minutes later Vagualame left Nichoune, after promising that he

would not give her any more spy work to do, and declaring that she should
never again be mixed up in any dangerous business. As he went along the
streets of Châlons, the dreadful old man chuckled and sniggered.

"Hands in the air, my beauty!... Just try that, this very night! With that little
heart mischief of yours! Ha! ha! We shall not be kept waiting for the
consequences of that performance! It will serve as an example to all and
sundry when they wish to write to the magistrate!"

Vagualame's face took on a wicked look.

"I shall have to be as careful as can be when I hide myself in that little
fool's room to-night! At all costs I must get hold of that compromising
letter before anyone in the hotel hears of the death! Not a soul must catch a
glimpse of me--that's certain!"

Those who passed Vagualame simply thought he was an old beggar, an old
accordion player....

IX

WITH THE UNDER-SECRETARY OF STATE

CHAPTER PAGE 110

"Come in!" cried Hofferman, who was writing hard.

An orderly stepped gingerly into the room.

"An usher, Colonel, with a message, begging you to be so good as to step

downstairs at once to see the Under-Secretary of State."

Hofferman looked up.

"Are you sure the message is for me?"

"Yes, Colonel."

"Very well. I am coming immediately."

The orderly vanished. Hofferman remained in thought for a minute or so,

rose abruptly, half opened the door of the adjoining room, and addressed
Commandant Dumoulin:

"The Under-Secretary of State wishes to see me. I am going down now."

The colonel passed rapidly along the interminable corridors separating him
from the building in which the Under-Secretary's offices were situated.

"What can he want to see me about?" Colonel Hofferman asked himself as

he entered the Under-Secretary's room.

Monsieur Maranjévol, an exceedingly active and immensely popular

deputy from la Gironde, to whom had been entrusted the delicate task of
serving as buffer between the civil and the military sections. Monsieur
Maranjévol was not alone in his vast reception-room, with its gilding and
pictures of battle scenes; seated opposite, and with his back to the light, was
a civilian, of middle height, clean-shaven, whose thin hair, turning grey,
curled slightly at the nape of the neck.
CHAPTER PAGE 111

The Under-Secretary rose, shook hands with the colonel, and went straight
to the point.

"Monsieur Juve of the detective force: Colonel Hofferman, head of the

Second Bureau."

The policeman and the soldier bowed gravely. They awaited the beginning
of the conference in a somewhat chilly silence.

Monsieur Maranjévol explained that after a short talk with Juve regarding
Captain Brocq's death, he had considered it necessary to put him in touch
with Colonel Hofferman.

The colonel, who had been showing signs of impatience for the last few
minutes, suddenly broke out:

"My faith, Monsieur," declared he, in a sharp abrupt voice, staring straight
into Juve's eyes, "I am very glad to have the opportunity of meeting you. I
shall not disguise from you that I am astonished, even very disagreeably
astonished, at your attitude during the past few days regarding this
wretched drama. Up to now, I have always considered that the private
personality of an officer, above all, of an officer on the Headquarters' Staff,
was a thing which was almost inviolable.... But it has come to my
knowledge that at the death of Captain Brocq, you have devoted yourself
not only to making the most minute investigations--that, perhaps, was your
right and your duty--into the circumstances accompanying the death, but
that you have searched the domicile of the defunct as well, and this without
giving us the required preliminary notice. I cannot and will not sanction this
method of procedure, and I congratulate myself on having this opportunity
of telling you so."

During this speech of the colonel's Monsieur Maranjévol stared with

astonished eyes, first at the soldier and then at the detective. The
good-natured and peaceable Under-Secretary was surprised at the colonel's
violent attack, and asked himself how Juve was going to take it.
CHAPTER PAGE 112

Juve took it with an unmoved countenance. He said, in his turn:

"I would point out to you, Colonel, that had it been only a question of a
natural death, I should have contented myself with restoring to you the
documents which had been collected at our headquarters; but, as you
probably knew, Captain Brocq was killed--killed in a mysterious fashion. I
thus found myself in the presence of a crime, a common law crime: the
inquest has restored it to the civil law jurisdiction, and not to the military:
believe me, I understand my business, I know my duty."

Juve had uttered these words with the greatest composure; but the slight
tremble in his voice would have made it clear to anyone who knew him
well, that the detective was maintaining his self-control only by a violent
effort.

The colonel replied in a tone stiff with offence:

"I persist in my opinion: you have no right to meddle in an affair which

concerns us alone. The death of Captain Brocq coincides with the loss of a
certain secret document: is it for you or for us to institute an enquiry into
it?"

After a pause, Juve's retort was:

"You must permit me to leave that question unanswered."

With all the bluntness of a military man, Colonel Hofferman had put his
finger on the open wound which for long years had been a source of
irritation to the detective force and the intelligence department alike, when,
owing to circumstances, both were called on to intervene at one and the
same time. In cases of theft and of spying the conflict was ceaseless.

Monsieur Havard, Juve's chief, had talked this matter over the night before,
and his last words of command were:
CHAPTER PAGE 113

"Above all, Juve, manage matters so that there is no fuss!... There must not
be a fuss!"

Colonel Hofferman, misinterpreting the detective's attitude, turned

triumphantly to the Under-Secretary:

"Not only that," he continued, "I think there has been far too much talk
made about the death of Captain Brocq. This officer was the victim of an
accident. We cannot discuss it. That is all there is to be said. It really does
not matter much. We of the Intelligence Department are soldiers, and
believe in a policy of results: at the present moment we have lost a
document: we are searching for it: action must be left to us.... And,
Monsieur, I revert to my first question--what the devil was the police doing
at Captain Brocq's--what business was it of theirs? Really, the detective
service is arrogating to itself more and more powers--powers that cannot be
sanctioned, that will not be granted or permitted."

Juve had so far contained himself, though with difficulty, but now Colonel
Hofferman was going too far. It was Juve's turn to break out.

"Monsieur," he cried, in a voice vibrating with passion, turning to the

Under-Secretary: "I cannot accept such observations--not for a moment! I
have among my papers on the case important proofs that the assassination
of Captain Brocq is surrounded with mysterious occurrences, and also of
the gravest nature. The theory Colonel Hofferman has just put forward will
not hold water--it does not hang together! To gain a full understanding of a
thing one must begin at the beginning. This beginning I have brought, and I
make you judge, Monsieur, of whether or no it is worth the most careful
consideration."

Caught between two fires, the Under-Secretary looked exceedingly sorry

for himself. Above everything, he dreaded being forced to act as umpire
between Hofferman and Juve. There was no escape, however, so, with a
weary air, he asked Juve to make his case clear.
CHAPTER PAGE 114

"Well, gentlemen," began our detective, who had fully regained his
self-possession, "you know what the circumstances were which led me to
the discovery that Captain Brocq had been mysteriously assassinated? It
was, obviously, of the first importance that I should learn every detail
regarding his private life, get to know with whom he had intercourse, who
his correspondents were, find out where he was accustomed to go, so that,
being thoroughly posted up regarding his personality, I could discover to
whose interest it would be that he should disappear.... I went to Brocq's flat
in the rue de Lille to collect evidence from various sources. I have it all
written down in my case papers. One fact stands out clearly: Captain Brocq
was regularly visited by a woman whom we have not as yet been able to
identify beyond a doubt, but we shall soon know who she is. I am certain
she is a lady of fashion. She was his mistress: the commencement of a letter
written to her by the deceased shows this; but, unfortunately, he has not
addressed her by name. The letter was begun, according to the experts,
some hours before the drama of assassination was enacted.... It is the
mauve document, number 42. It commences:

"'My darling'."...

Juve showed this sheet of mauve letter paper to his listeners. Colonel
Hofferman seemed to attach no importance whatever to it.

Juve continued:

"I should greatly value Colonel Hofferman's opinion regarding the

suppositions I am about to formulate. Well, gentlemen, here is what I
deduce from my investigations.... Captain Brocq was a simple, modest
fellow; a hard worker; reasonable, temperate, serious-minded officer: a
good middle-class citizen, in fact. If Captain Brocq had an irregular love
affair, it was assuredly with the best intentions; Brocq, who perhaps had not
been able to resist his senses, was too straight a man to willingly entertain
the idea of not regularising the union later on. Is that your opinion,
Colonel?"

Hofferman frankly replied:

CHAPTER PAGE 115

"It is my opinion, Monsieur Juve. That was certainly Captain Brocq's

character. But I do not see what you are driving at."

"At this," replied the detective. "Captain Brocq's mistress must be looked
for, not among women of the lower orders, but among those of a higher
class, who are more outwardly correct, at any rate, more women of the
world. Among those with whom Brocq was on friendly terms, was the
family of an old diplomat of Austrian extraction, a Monsieur de
Naarboveck. This de Naarboveck has a daughter: she is twenty. This
Mademoiselle Wilhelmine was terribly distressed, and in a state of
profound grief, the day after Brocq's death. I am not going so far as to
pretend that Mademoiselle de Naarboveck was Brocq's mistress; but one
might easily think so."

"How do you know that Mademoiselle de Naarboveck showed grief at the

death of Captain Brocq?"

"Through a journalist who was received in the de Naarboveck family circle

the day after the drama."

"Oh, a journalist!" protested the colonel.

Juve smiled slily.

"A journalist not like the others--it was Jérôme Fandor, Colonel!... He went
to de Naarboveck's to fulfill a mission entrusted to him by those in high
places. The Minister of War."...

The Under-Secretary cut the inspector short.

"We know all about that, Monsieur Juve ... besides the person whom the
Minister wished to learn something about was not Monsieur de
Naarboveck's daughter, but her companion--a young woman named
Berthe."...

"And nicknamed Bobinette!" finished Juve.

CHAPTER PAGE 116

"What do you think of her?" asked the Under-Secretary.

Juve's reply was an indirect one.

"The more I think about it, the more I am tempted to believe that
Wilhelmine de Naarboveck was Brocq's mistress--oh, in the right way, in
all honour!--and that in the background, surreptitiously, a third person
pushed herself into their confidence was the recipient of their secret, and on
this account she could take a good many liberties with them. Berthe, or
Bobinette, was this third person, of course!... She is known to have visited
Brocq repeatedly.... Now, what was she doing there--what was her object?
Well, we have to get a clear idea of what happened and draw our
conclusions. Remember, Brocq left his flat in great haste on the afternoon
of his assassination; he took a taxi at the des Saints-Pères, and drove off in
pursuit of someone.... Why, we do not know, yet; but this someone was a
woman, and I am convinced the woman was Bobinette."

"What is Bobinette's social position?"

"Gentlemen, I wish I could define it in a single word, but it is here that I

enter the region of enigmas. Here is mystery on mystery. Without breaking
the seal of professional secrecy, I may tell you that this woman should be
known to me; I say 'should' because I still lack precise information about
her; I await this information with impatience--I fear it also, for,
gentlemen."...

Juve stopped short, got up, and began pacing the immense room. Drawing
up before the Under-Secretary and Colonel Hofferman, he gazed at them.
His manner was impressive.

"Gentlemen," said he, in a quiet penetrating voice, and with an air of

intense conviction: "Gentlemen, if my conjectures are correct, Bobinette is
naught but a girl of low birth--of the lowest--a creature who will stick at
nothing, who has been mixed up with a band of criminals, the most
cunning, the most artful, the most unscrupulous, the most dangerous band
of criminals in all this round world--a band I have, time and again, pursued,
CHAPTER PAGE 117

decimated, broken up, dispersed ... only to see them spring to an associated
evil life again, a ceaseless rebirth of maleficent forces, forming and
reforming, a malevolent, hydra-headed monster, a band, gentlemen, of
incarnated evil--the band of Fantômas!"

Juve became silent. He wiped his forehead.

The harsh voice of Colonel Hofferman broke the silence:

"Hypotheses! True to this extent, Monsieur Juve, that Brocq may very well
have had a mistress--we are all agreed about that--but, in reality, it is
simply romance!"

There was a discreet knock at the door.

"What is it?" demanded the Under-Secretary. The form of an usher showed

itself in the half-opened doorway.

He entered, and, turning towards the Under-Secretary, said: "Excuse me,

sir." Then, addressing Colonel Hofferman: "Captain Loreuil sends me to
tell Colonel Hofferman that he has returned, and has a communication of
extreme urgency to lay before him."

"The captain must wait!" cried Hofferman, in a harsh, authoritative tone.

But the usher, fulfilling his orders, replied:

"The captain anticipated this answer, Colonel, and told me to add that the
communication cannot wait."

The usher withdrew. Hofferman glanced questioningly at the

Under-Secretary.

"Go to him, Colonel, and return as soon as possible."

The Under-Secretary addressed Juve:

CHAPTER PAGE 118

"The Government is greatly annoyed by all these incidents, which are

assuming enormous proportions.... Are you aware that rumours of war are
becoming wide-spread?... Public opinion is in a most unsettled state....
Things are bad on the Bourse, too--going from bad to worse!... Really, it is
all most distressing!"

With a movement of sympathetic acquiescence, Juve said gently:

"I cannot help it, Monsieur!"

It was noon. Twelve was striking.

AUNT PALMYRA.

Early in the morning of the day on which the meeting took place in the
private office of the Under-Secretary of State, the proprietor of The Three
Moons at Châlons was busy bottling his wine. Dawn was just breaking, and
the good man had a spirit lamp in his cellar to throw light upon his task.

Suddenly his bottling operations were disturbed by an unknown voice

calling him insistently from the top of the steps.

"Hey, there! Father Louis! Where is Father Louis?"

Fuming and grumbling, the innkeeper mounted his cellar-steps, and

appeared on the porch.

"I am Father Louis! What am I wanted for?"

The publican found himself face to face with an enormously stout woman:
a grotesque figure clad in light-coloured garments, so cut that they
exaggerated her stoutness; a large, many-coloured shawl was thrown round
her shoulders; on her head was a big round hat, tied with strings in a bow
under her chin. This odd head-gear was topped with a bunch of gaudy
CHAPTER PAGE 119

feathers, ragged and out of curl. A veil of flowery design half hid this
woman's features: though far from her first youth, she no doubt wished to
appear young still. The skin of her face was covered with powder and paint,
so badly laid on, that daubs of white, of red, and blue, lay side by side in all
their crudity: there was no soft blending of tints: it was the make-up of no
artist's hand.

"What an object!" thought the publican, staring at this oddity, who had
seated herself on the porch seat and had placed on the ground a great
wicker basket filled with vegetables.

"Ouf!" she cried. "It is a long step to your canteen, Father Louis! My word,
I never thought I should get here! Well now, how is my little pet of a girl?"

Nonplussed, suspicious, Father Louis looked hard at this strange visitor:

never had he seen anyone like her! What astonished him was to hear her
calling him by the name used only by his familiars.

"Whoever are you?" he asked in a surly tone. "I don't remember you!"

"That's not surprising," cried the visitor, who seemed of a gay disposition,
for she always laughed at the close of every sentence. "My goodness! It
would be queer if you did not recognise me, considering you have never
seen me before!... I am Aunt Palmyra, let me tell you!"

The innkeeper, more and more out of countenance, searched his memory in
vain.

"Aunt Palmyra?" he echoed.

"Why, of course, you big stupid! Nichoune's aunt--a customer of yours, she
is! She must have mentioned me often--I adore the little pet!"

Father Louis had not the slightest recollection of any such mention, but, out
of politeness, he murmured:
CHAPTER PAGE 120

"Of course! Why, of course!"

"Well, then, old dear, you must tell me where she hangs out here! I must go
and give her a hug and a kiss!"

Mechanically, the innkeeper directed Aunt Palmyra.

"On the ground floor--end of the passage!... But you're never thinking of
waking Nichoune at this early hour! She'll make a pretty noise if you do!"

"Bah!" cried Aunt Palmyra: "Wait till the little dear sees who it is!... Just
look at the nice things I've brought her!" and, showing him the vegetables
in her basket, she began to drawl in a sing-song voice:

"Will you have turnips and leeks? Here's stuff to make broth of the best! It
will make her think of bygone days when she lived with us in the country!"

"My faith!" thought Father Louis, "if Nichoune opens her mouth!"

Aunt Palmyra was knocking repeatedly at Nichoune's door, but there was
no response.

"Well, what a sleep she's having!"

"Likely enough," replied Father Louis, "considering she was not in bed till
four o'clock!"

All the same, this persistent silence puzzled the innkeeper. He tried to peep
through the keyhole, but the key was in it. Then he quietly drew a gimlet
from his pocket and bored a hole in the door. Aunt Palmyra watched him
smiling: she winked and jogged his elbow.

"Ho, ho, my boy! I'll wager you don't stick at having a look at your
customers this way, when it suits you!"
CHAPTER PAGE 121

With the ease of practice the innkeeper glued his eye to the hole he had just
made. He uttered an exclamation:

"Good heavens!"

"What is it?" cried Nichoune's aunt in a tone of alarm. "Is her room
empty?"

"Empty? No! But."...

Father Louis was white as paper. He searched his pocket in feverish haste,
drew from it a screwdriver, rapidly detached the lock, and rushed into the
room, followed by Aunt Palmyra, who bawled:

"Oh, my good lord! Whatever is the matter with her?"

Nichoune was stretched out on her bed, and might have seemed asleep to
an onlooker were it not for two things which at once struck the eye: her
face was all purple, and her arms, sticking straight up in the air, were
terrifyingly white and rigid. Approaching the bed, the innkeeper and Aunt
Palmyra saw that Nichoune's arms were maintained in this vertical position
by means of string tied round her wrists and fastened to the canopy over the
bed.

"She is dead!" cried Father Louis. "This is awful! Good heavens! What a
thing to happen!"

Aunt Palmyra, for all her previous protestations of affection for her
charming niece, did not seem in any way moved by the tragic discovery.
She glanced rapidly round the room without a sign of emotion. This attitude
only lasted a moment. Suddenly she broke out into loud lamentations
uttering piercing cries: she threw herself into an arm-chair, then sank in a
heap on the sofa, then returned to the table! She was making a regular
nuisance of herself. The innkeeper, scared and bewildered, did not know
how to act: he was staring fixedly at the unfortunate Nichoune, who gave
no sign of life. Involuntarily the man had touched the dead girl's shoulder:
CHAPTER PAGE 122

the body was quite cold.

The innkeeper, who had been driven into a state of distracted bewilderment
by Aunt Palmyra's behaviour, now bethought him of his obvious duty: of
course he must call in the police, and also avoid scandal. Also he must stop
this old woman's outrageous goings-on.

"Be quiet!" he commanded. "You are not to make such a noise! Stay where
you are! Don't stir from that corner until I return ... and, above all, you must
not touch a single thing before the arrival of the police."

"The police!" moaned Aunt Palmyra. "It is frightful! Oh, my poor

Nichoune, however could this have happened?"

Nevertheless, scarcely had the innkeeper retired than the old woman, with
remarkable dexterity, rummaged about among the disordered furniture, and
seized a certain number of papers, which she hid in her bodice.

Hardly had she pushed them out of sight when the innkeeper returned,
accompanied by a policeman. It was in vain that Father Louis endeavoured
to get the policeman into the tragic room. He did not wish to do anything.

"I tell you," he repeated in his big voice, "it's not worth my while looking at
this corpse ... for the superintendent will be here shortly, and he will take
charge of the legal procedure."

At the end of about ten minutes the magistrate appeared, accompanied by

his secretary, and immediately proceeded to a summary interrogation of the
innkeeper; but, in the presence of Aunt Palmyra, it was impossible to do
any serious work. This insupportable old woman could not make head or
tail of the questions, and answered at random.

"Leave the room, Madame, leave the room, and I will hear what you have
to say presently."

"But where must I go?" whined Aunt Palmyra.

CHAPTER PAGE 123

"Go where you like! Go to the devil!" shouted the exasperated inspector.

"Oh, well, I suppose I ought not to say so," replied the old woman, looking
seriously offended, "but, though you are an inspector, you have a very rude
tongue in your head!"

To emphasise her majestic exit, Aunt Palmyra added:

"Fancy now! Not one of you have thought of it! I am going as far as the
corner to look for flowers for this poor little thing."

*****

Either florists were difficult to find, or Aunt Palmyra had no wish to see
them as she passed by, for the old woman walked right through the town
without stopping. When she reached the railway station she looked at the
clock.

"By the saints! I have barely time," she ejaculated.

The old termagant traversed the waiting-room, got her ticket punched--it
was a return ticket--and stepped on to the platform at the precise moment a
porter was crying in an ear-piercing voice:

"Passengers for Paris take your seats!"

Aunt Palmyra installed herself in a second-class compartment: "For ladies

only."

*****

The train rolled out of the station.

An inspector was examining the tickets at the stopping-place at

Château-Thierry.
CHAPTER PAGE 124

"Excuse me, sir," said he, waking a passenger who had fallen fast asleep--a
stout man, with a smooth face and scanty hair--"Excuse me, Monsieur, but
you are in a 'For ladies only!'"

The man leapt up and rubbed his eyes; instinctively, with the gesture of a
short-sighted man, he took from his waistcoat pocket a large pair of
spectacles in gold frames, and stared at the inspector.

"I am sorry! It's a mistake! I will change into another compartment!"

The stranger passed along the connecting corridor, carrying a small bundle
of clothes wrapped in a shawl of many colours!... An hour later, the train
from Châlons arrived at Paris, ten minutes behind time. Directly he stood
on the platform the traveller looked at his watch.

"Twenty-five past eleven! I can do it!"

He jumped into a taxi, giving his orders:

"Rue Saint Dominique--Ministry of War!... and quick!"

*****

Shortly after the unexpected departure of Colonel Hofferman, Juve, judging

it useless to prolong the conversation, had quitted the Under-Secretary of
State's office. Instead of mounting to the Second Bureau, he sent in his
name to Commandant Dumoulin. Although their acquaintance was but
slight, the two men were in sympathy: each realised that the other was
courageous and devoted to duty; both were enamoured of an active life and
open air.

Juve was hoping that at all events he would hear something new, if not
facts about the affair he had in hand, at least with regard to the attitude
which the military authorities meant to take up. Commandant Dumoulin,
however, knew nothing or did not wish to say anything, and Juve was about
to leave, when Colonel Hofferman entered.
CHAPTER PAGE 125

Hofferman looked radiant. Catching sight of Juve, he smiled.

"Ah! Upon my word! I did not expect to find you here, Monsieur ... but,
since you are, you will be glad to get some news of the Brocq affair."...

Juve's eyes were shining notes of interrogation.

"I rendered due homage to your perspicacity just now," continued the
colonel: "you were absolutely right in your prognostication that Brocq had
a mistress; unfortunately--I am sorry for the wound to your self-esteem--the
correctness of your version stops there! Brocq's mistress was not a society
woman, as you thought: on the contrary, she was a girl of the lower orders
... a music-hall singer, called Nichoune ... of Châlons!"

"You have proof of it?"

The colonel, with a superior air, held out a packet of letters to Juve.

"Here is the correspondence--letters written by Brocq to the girl! One of my

collaborators seized them at girl's place."...

Juve scrutinised the letters.

"It's curious," he said, half to himself.... "An annoying coincidence ... but
the name of Nichoune does not appear once in these letters!"

"No other name appears," observed the colonel: "Consequently, taking into
consideration the place where these letters have been found ... we must
conclude."...

"These letters had no envelopes with them?" questioned Juve.

"No, there were none, but what matters that?" cried the colonel.

"Very queer," said Juve, in a meditative tone. Then raising his voice:
CHAPTER PAGE 126

"I suppose, Colonel, that your ... collaborator, before taking possession of
these letters, had a talk with the person who had received them. Did he
manage to extract any information?"

Hofferman interrupted Juve with a gesture.

"Monsieur Juve," said he, crossing his arms, "I am going to give you
another surprise: my collaborator could not get the person in question to
talk, and for a very good reason: he found her dead!"

"Dead?" echoed Juve.

"That is as I say."

The detective, though he strove to hide it, was more and more taken aback.
What could this mean? No doubt he would soon secure additional
information; but what was the connecting link? where, and who was the
mysterious person who was really pulling the strings? The sarcastic voice
of the colonel tore Juve from his reflections and questionings.

"Monsieur Juve, I think it is high time we had some lunch ... but before we
separate allow me to give you a word of advice.

"When, in the course of your career, you have occasion to deal with matters
relating to spies and spying, leave us to deal with them, that is what we are
here for!... As for you, content yourself with ordinary police work, that is
your business, and, if it gives you pleasure, continue your hunt for
Fantômas, that will give you all the occupation you require!... Yes,"
continued the colonel, while Juve was clenching his fists with exasperation
at this irony which was like so many flicks of a whip on his face, "Yes,
leave these serious affairs to us--and occupy yourself with Fantômas!"

XI

THE HOODED CLOAK OF FANTÔMAS

CHAPTER PAGE 127

Leaning on his window-sill, Jérôme Fandor was apparently keeping a strict

watch on the comings and goings of the passers-by, who, having finished
their Sunday walk, were bending their steps towards dinner, a quiet
evening, and a reposeful night. Seven o'clock sounded from a neighbouring
clock, its strokes borne through the misty atmosphere, darkened by fog: it
was a peaceful moment, made for pleasurable relaxation ofter the activities
of the day. Jérôme Fandor, however, was not enjoying the charm of the
hour. Although his attitude was apparently tranquil, listless even, inwardly
he was in a state of fury, a condition of feverish enervation.

"To be so near success," he thought; "to be on the point of bringing in a

magnificent haul, and then to get myself locked up, like a fool! No! Not if I
can help it! Why it would be enough to make me strangle myself with my
handkerchief as they believed that wretched Dollon, of sinister memory,
did in the past!"

He smoked cigarette after cigarette, raving to himself, yet never taking his
eyes off the pavements, where tirelessly, ceaselessly, a stream of
pedestrians passed up and down the street.

"Was I mistaken, I wonder!" he went on. "Still, I cannot help fancying that
youth--he was fifteen at the most--that sickly young blackguard of the Paris
pavements who followed me into the tube, then took the same train as I did,
who was behind me as I crossed the Place de la Concorde, who was
continually and persistently on my tracks--I cannot think he was there by
chance!... Well, it is no use worrying myself into a fever over it!"

Fandor found it almost impossible to recover his tranquillity of mind.

Again and again, in the course of the day, he had come across the same
individuals during his peregrinations, which took him from one end of Paris
to the other: was it accident, coincidence, fatality, or was a very strict watch
being kept over his movements? Thus Fandor had asked himself whether
the Second Bureau had been warned of the part he had played with regard
to Vinson? Was he not being watched and shadowed in the hope of running
the treacherous corporal to earth? If the Second Bureau had decided to
arrest Fandor, he certainly would not escape. "I shall be jailed within
CHAPTER PAGE 128

twenty-four hours," thought our journalist. "This branch of the detective

service is so marvellously organised, that should the heads of it look upon
me as Vinson's accomplice they will arrest me before I have time to parry
the blow. In that case, the band of traitors I pursue, and am on the point of
unearthing, will gain enough time to take their bearings, make all their
arrangements, and disappear, without counting that this miserable Vinson,
who relies on my help, will be caught at once."

Suddenly Fandor left his post of observation, shut his window, and went to
the telephone.

"I must put Juve in possession of all the facts up to now, then, if I am
caught, Juve will see to it that I am set free--he will put his heart into it, I
know."

Unfortunately, it was not Juve who was at the other end of the line. He had
gone out; his old servant took Fandor's message.

"Tell Monsieur Juve directly he comes in that I cannot go out, but that I
absolutely must see him. Tell him the matter is most urgent."

*****

It was ten o'clock at night. Corporal Vinson was dressing in haste.

"Plague take it!" he cried. "I mustn't lose a moment if I don't want to miss
my train."

Vinson was dressing in Fandor's bedroom. There must have been a time
when Corporal Vinson was very proud of putting on the uniform of a
French soldier; but at this particular moment his feelings were the very
opposite. However, he clad himself in this same uniform with lightning
rapidity. Careful of his smart appearance, the corporal examined himself in
the glass: the reflection was so satisfactory that he broke into
smiles--undoubtedly his uniform suited him.
CHAPTER PAGE 129

There was a violent ring at the door-bell. Vinson jumped: he began to

tremble.

"Who can it be at this hour?" he asked himself. "I was sure something
would happen! I was bound to catch it somehow!"

Vinson dared not risk a movement: he stood rigid, motionless. Whoever

was at the door must be led to think that there was not a living soul in
Fandor's flat.

Again the bell rang, a violent ring: it was the ring of someone who does not
mean to go away, who knows that the delay in opening the door is
deliberate.

"Plague take that porter!" murmured the corporal. "I'll wager."...

Again the bell rang violently.

Something had to be done. Drops of sweat rolled down the corporal's face.

"By jingo, this business is going to end very badly!"

The young soldier rapidly drew off his shoes and tiptoed to the vestibule.
Through the keyhole he looked to see who was ringing for the fourth time,
and more violently than ever.

No sooner had Vinson looked than he swore softly.

"Good Heavens! What I feared! It's an agent from the Second Bureau!... I
recognise him!... I am sold--there's not a doubt of it!"

Ghastly from terror, Vinson watched the visitor put his hand in his pocket,
then choose a key from his bunch.

"Ah! This individual has a master-key! And I--I have an idea!"

CHAPTER PAGE 130

Vinson leaped backwards, just as the agent was putting his key in the lock,
and rushed towards Fandor's study. He locked the door at the precise
moment the agent entered the flat.

"Halt!" cried he: Vinson's movements had been heard.

The corporal's answer was to double-lock the door. "What you are doing
there is childish!" cried the agent. "I have master-keys! Give yourself up!"
Taking a fresh key, he unlocked the door Vinson had just closed. The
corporal was not in the room. The agent rushed to another door which led
from the study to the dining-room. He opened that door, entered the
dining-room; it was empty also: Vinson had fled to the room adjoining.

"You cannot keep at it!" cried the agent. "You see the doors cannot offer a
moment's resistance! I shall corner you!"

But Vinson, retreating from room to room, aimed at drawing on his pursuer
to the last room of the flat. Directly the agent entered the dining-room,
Vinson, quick as lightning, leapt into the corridor, crossed the vestibule at a
bound, opened the door leading to the staircase, slamming it behind him.

On the landing he hesitated a second.

"Must he go down the stairs?"

The agent would follow in his track, the pursuit would develop, for, seeing
a soldier in uniform racing along, the passers-by would join in the running:
it would be fatal--Vinson would be caught.

"I'll double back," thought he, "back and up!"

Hurriedly he mounted the next flight of stairs, gaining the third story. No
sooner had he reached the landing which dominated Fandor's flat than the
agent, in his turn, reached the staircase and ran to the balustrade to try and
catch sight of Vinson on his way down to the street. He did not doubt that
this was the soldier's way of escape. The agent could not see a soul.
CHAPTER PAGE 131

"Got off, by Jove!" He was furious.

He was about to descend, when someone, belonging to the house probably,

began to mount the first flight of stairs in leisurely fashion, someone who
could have no suspicion of the pursuit going on in the house. Very likely
the agent neither intended nor desired to be recognised for what he was: it
was quite probable that he did not wish to be seen, for, on hearing this
someone coming up towards him, he stopped short in his descent.... It was
his turn to hesitate a moment. Then it suddenly occurred to him that this
new-comer might be a resident on one of the lower floors and so would not
come higher. With this, the agent retraced his steps, crossed the landing on
to which Fandor's flat opened, and began to mount the next flight leading to
the third floor.

This did not suit Vinson: he was on tenterhooks.

"If he keeps coming up," thought the corporal, "much use it will be for me
to retreat upwards! He will nip me on the sixth floor! It's a dead cert!"

Then he had a brilliant idea. He began to walk on the landing with heavy
steps, imitating someone coming downstairs. Forthwith, the agent, who was
coming up, stopped short. He had no wish to be seen by the person
descending either! The only thing left for him to do was to take refuge in
the journalist's flat! Easy enough with his master-key! He reopened the
door, closing it just in time to escape being seen by the resident coming
upstairs.

Vinson, who had not lost a single movement of the agent's, gave a sigh of
satisfaction. He had perfectly understood the why and wherefore of his
pursuer's hesitations; he seemed now in high good-humour; had he not
caught sight of the new arrival! He was immensely amused!

The person who had just come upstairs was now ringing Fandor's bell. Not
getting any answer, he selected a key on his bunch, and it was his turn to let
himself in to the journalist's flat.
CHAPTER PAGE 132

As he was closing the door, Corporal Vinson, from the landing above, gave
him an ironical salute.

"I much regret that I am unable to introduce you to each other! But, by way
of return, I thank you for the service you have unwittingly done me."

The way was open: Vinson rapidly descended, gained the street, hailed a
cab.

"To the Eastern Station!"

"I have missed the express," he muttered; "but I shall catch the first train for
those on leave."

*****

Whilst Corporal Vinson was congratulating himself on the turn of events,

the agent remained in Fandor's flat, feeling as if he were the victim of an
abominable nightmare. No sooner had he hurriedly let himself into the flat
in order to escape the resident coming upstairs, than he heard the bell ring:
he felt desperate: "Who the devil was it!" Assuredly not the unknown who
had fled so mysteriously--"Who then?"

When the bell rang a second time, the man cried: "What's to be done?"
Well, the best thing was to wait in the journalist's study: it was more than
probable that, not obtaining any response, the visitor would go away!...
This was not at all what happened.

With the same assurance which he himself had had a few minutes before,
the agent of the Second Bureau heard the new arrival slip his key into the
lock, open the door, close it as confidently as though he were entering his
own home; and now, yes, he was coming towards the study!

There was no light burning in Fandor's study: some gleams from the
gas-lamps in the street dimly illumined the room. The agent, who was
leaning with his elbow on the mantelpiece, could not clearly distinguish the
CHAPTER PAGE 133

features of the person who now stood in the doorway.

It was certainly not the journalist. The intruder was a man of quite forty; he
wore a soft hat turned down at the edges, thus partially concealing the
upper half of his face, which was sunk in the raised collar of an overcoat.

The intruder bowed slightly to the agent, then taking a few steps into the
room, went to the window, looked about outside. He seemed to be someone
on intimate terms with the master of the flat, and might be going to await
his return.

"He must be a friend of Jérôme Fandor's," thought the agent. "He must
think the journalist will be here shortly, perhaps that he is actually in the
flat somewhere, and that I too am waiting for him." Evidently the best thing
to do was to stay where he was, and not to make any remark which might
attract attention.

Some minutes passed thus. Presently, the two men, tired with standing,
seated themselves.

"The old boy will get sick of waiting," thought the agent. "He will go away,
and I shall take my departure when he has cleared out."

But the new-comer, making himself very much at home, now relieved
himself of his greatcoat, removed his hat, and, having caught sight of a
lamp on the mantelpiece, took a box of matches from his pocket, and
proceeded to light it. At the moment when the match flared up, the man,
turning his back on the agent, could not see him: but the agent could see the
man distinctly. There could be no question that the man lighting the lamp
was someone the agent had not expected to meet, for the emissary from the
Second Board did the very reverse of what the new-comer had done: he
turned up the collar of his greatcoat!

The two men were now face to face in the lighted room.... There was a
silence which lasted some minutes: the agent broke it.
CHAPTER PAGE 134

"You await Monsieur Fandor?" asked the agent.

"Yes, Monsieur, and you also, no doubt?"

"Quite so ... and I have more than an idea that we shall have to wait a long
time for him.... I saw him a short while ago, he had a piece of pressing
business on hand, and I do not think he will be back before."... The agent
was quite obviously trying to get the new-comer to retire.

"Bah!" retorted the latter: "I am in no hurry." Whilst speaking the unknown
visitor stared strangely at the emissary of the Second Bureau: he was
thinking.

"Where have I seen that long beard--that remarkably heavy moustache?...

And then this bundle he has put down!... If I am not jolly well mistaken, I
know this individual!"

"Well, now," he said pleasantly, "since chance has thrown us into each
other's company, allow me to introduce myself, Monsieur! I am Brigadier
Juve of the detective force, from Police Headquarters."

"In that case, we might almost count ourselves colleagues, Monsieur! I am

the agent Vagualame, attached to the vigilance department of the Secret
Service!"

With that, Vagualame held out his hand to his colleague, Juve! It was done
with an unmistakable air of constraint.

It really seemed as if Juve had been awaiting this very action; for, at the
precise moment Vagualame held out his hand, the detective extended his,
and prolonged the hand-clasp as if he never meant to let go--a regular
hand-grip!

Juve was thinking hard.

CHAPTER PAGE 135

"Vagualame! Here is this Vagualame at Fandor's!... It's significant!... and

then?... No, there's no doubt about it! This beard is false! That moustache is
artificial!... This individual is made up!"

Perceiving that he was face to face with a disguised man, Juve was about to
hurl himself on this masquerader, when that individual, forestalling the
detective's movement, seized the initiative with lightning rapidity. He tore
his hand from Juve's tenacious grip, bounded to the mantelpiece, threw
down the lamp with a jerk of his elbow, thrust Juve violently aside, and
rushed to the door.

Like lightning Juve tore off in pursuit.

The masquerader had the advantage by some yards. Banging door after
door in Juve's face, he rushed towards the entrance hall, gained the
staircase, racing down it by leaps and bounds, four steps at a time!... Juve at
his heels, risked breaking his neck in hot pursuit....

Vagualame reached the porch of the house door: Juve was close on his
quarry....

"I shall get him!" thought Juve: "In the street the people will lend me a
helping hand!"

Vagualame fled through the doorway: in passing, he seized the massive

door and pulled it to with a resounding bang....

Juve, borne forward by the impetus of his dashing pursuit, staggered

backwards and rolled to the ground....

Instantly Juve sprang to the porter's lodge and demanded the string! In the
twinkling of an eye and Juve was out in the street! He was furious, he was
breathless.... The whole length of the pavements not a soul was in sight!
Vagualame had vanished!

*****
CHAPTER PAGE 136

Taking advantage of the fact that Fandor's concierge knew him well, and
was aware of his standing as an officer of the detective force, Juve, after
having explained in a few words to the honest creature the cause of the
commotion mounted to Fandor's flat once more.

"What the deuce is the meaning of all this?" he was asking himself. "Two
hours ago, Fandor telephones me that he must see me on a matter of the
utmost urgency ... he telephones me that he cannot go out, that he is waiting
for me.... And now, not only is he not here, but I stumble on an agent from
the Second Bureau.... I encounter a Vagualame disguised, who runs as if all
the devils of hell were after him ... who makes off with extraordinary
agility, whose presence of mind in burking pursuit is marvellous!... Who is
this fellow?... What was he up to in Fandor's flat?... Where is Fandor?"

Our detective had just re-entered the journalist's study. There, on the floor,
lay the bundle which had excited his curiosity when Vagualame was
present.

"The enemy," thought he, "has retired, but has abandoned his baggage!"

Juve relighted the lamp, and undid the black serge covering of the bundle.

"Ah! I might have guessed as much, it is an accordion, Vagualame's

accordion!"

Mechanically turning and returning the instrument of music, Juve slipped

his hands into the leather holders, wishing to relax the bellows, which were
at full stretch.... To his surprise the bellows resisted.

"Why, there must be something inside the accordion!" he exclaimed.

Juve drew from his pocket a dagger knife and slit open the bellows with
one sharp cut.... Something black fell out--a piece of stuff, Juve picked it
up, spread it out, and considered it.... He grew pale as he looked, staggered
like a drunken man, and sank on a chair, overcome. What he held in his
hand was a hooded cloak, long and black, such as Italian bandits wear--a
CHAPTER PAGE 137

species of mask.

Sunk in his chair, his eyes staring at this sinister garment, Juve seemed to
see rising before him a form at once mysterious and clearly defined--the
form of an unknown man enveloped in this cloak as in a sheath, his face
hidden by the hooded mask, disguised, by just such a cloak as he had
exposed to view when he slashed open the bellows of this accordion!

This form, mysterious, nameless, tragic, thus evoked, Juve had rarely seen;
but each time that figure in hooded black had appeared, it was in
circumstances so serious, under conditions so tragic, that it was graven on
his memory--graven beyond mistake--graven ineffaceably!

Had not Juve been haunted by this form, this figure so mysteriously
indicated, haunted by this invisible face hidden by its hooded cloak of
black--haunted for years! Never had he been able to get close to it!

Never had he been able to seize it in his hands, outstretched to grasp it!

Whenever this sinister garment had met his eyes, it had been the sign of
some frightful deception! He did not know the countenance it masked so
darkly, but that same cloak he knew!... So well did he know it, that never
could he confuse it with another hooded cloak of black--never! Its shape
was peculiar; its cut singular--unmistakable! It was the impenetrable mask
of one of those counterfeit personalities assumed at the pleasure of that
enigmatic, sinister, formidable bandit, whom Juve had pursued for ten
years, without cessation, without mercy; there had been no truce to this
hunting.

Now he turned, and returned, this cloak of dark significance with trembling
hands, as if he would tear its secret from its sinister folds. This hooded
cloak which his knife had revealed, which he had torn from its hiding place
in the accordion of Vagualame, was none other than the cloak of Fantômas.

Suddenly there was brought home to Juve the comprehension of all this
adventure signified--a distracting, a maddening adventure!
CHAPTER PAGE 138

"Fantômas! Fantômas!" Juve murmured. "Great Heavens! I saw Fantômas

before me!... Vagualame! He is Fantômas!... Curse it! He has slipped
through my hands, thrice fool that I am! Never again will he appear as this
beggarly accordion player--never will he dare to show himself in that
make-up!... What new form will he take?... Fantômas! Fantômas! Once
again you have escaped me!"

*****

Our detective remained in Fandor's flat all night. He awaited the journalist's
return.

Fandor did not come.

XII

A TRICK ACCORDING TO FANDOR

It was a November Sunday evening. A crowd of leave-expired soldiers

were entraining at the Eastern Station. They would be dropped at their
respective garrisons along the line of some 400 kilometres separating the
capital from the frontier.

They had dined, supped, feasted with friends and relatives: now they were
voicing regretful farewells by medley of songs and ear-splitting serenades.
They scrambled into the third-class compartments, fifteen, sixteen at a time,
filling the seats and overflowing on to the floor. Little by little the
deafening din of the "wild beasts," as they were jokingly called,
diminished; their enthusiasm died down as the night advanced, while the
train rushed full steam ahead for the frontier of France.

They fell asleep, knowing that kind comrades would awaken them when
the train drew up at their various garrisons. At Reims, the compartments
disgorged the dragoons pell-mell; at Châlons, so many gunners and infantry
had got out that the train was half emptied. At Sainte-Menehould, a large
contingent of cuirassiers and infantry had cleared out. Towards four in the
CHAPTER PAGE 139

morning the express was nearing Verdun.

As the train steamed out of Sainte-Menehould, a corporal of the line, who

had been forced to sit up as stiff as a poker for several hours, stretched
himself at length on the compartment seat with a sigh of relief. But the
jerks and jolts of the carriage, the hard seat, made sleep impossible: the
epaulettes of his uniform were an added source of discomfort. The corporal
sat up, rubbed the musty glass of the window, and watched for the coming
day. On the far horizon, beyond a shadowy stretch of country, a pallid
dawn was breaking. Trees were swaying in a gusty wind. At intervals,
when the clatter of the onrushing train lessened, the heavy pattering of rain
on the roof became audible.

"Confound it!" growled the corporal. "Detestable weather! Hateful

country!"

Whilst attempting some muscular exercises to unstiffen his aching limbs,

he muttered:

"And only to think of that wretch Vinson enjoying the benefit of my

first-class permit!... Started off to-night under my name, and is now rolling
along in a comfortable sleeping-car towards the sunny South with a nice bit
of money in his purse!"

The corporal in the inhospitable third-class of the Verdun train made

mental pictures of Vinson's progress south. He talked to himself aloud.

"Good journey to you, you jolly dog!... In six weeks' time, if you have a
thought to spare for me, you will send your news as we arranged!"

The corporal began breathing warm breaths on his numbed fingers.

"By Jove! The company is not prodigal of foot-warmers, that's certain! It's
an ice-house in here!"

He continued to soliloquise:
CHAPTER PAGE 140

"It's a deuce of a risky business I have let myself in for!... To take Vinson's
place, and set off for Verdun, where his regiment is doing garrison duty, the
regiment to which he has just been attached!... It would run as smooth as oil
if I had done my military service, but, owing to circumstances, I have never
been called up!... A pretty sort of fool I may make of myself!"...

After a reflective silence, he went on:

"Bah! I shall pull through all right! Have I not crammed my head with
theory the last eight days, and pumped Vinson for all he was worth about
the rules and regulations, and the ways of camp life!... All the same ... to
make my début in an Eastern garrison, in the 'Iron Division,' straight off the
reel takes some nerve!... What cheek!... It's the limit!... But, my dear little
Fandor, don't forget you are at Verdun not to play the complete soldier but
to gather exact information about a band of traitors, and to unmask them at
the first opportunity--a work of national importance, little Fandor, and don't
you forget it!"

Thus our adventurous Vinson-Fandor lay shivering in the night train on the
point of drawing up at Verdun.

Having saved the wretched Vinson from suicide, Fandor had made him
promise to leave France and await developments, whilst Fandor, posing as
Vinson, studied at close quarters the spies who had drawn the miserable
corporal into their net. Fandor could personate Vinson with every chance of
success, because the 257th of the line had never set eyes on the corporal.

After a week of perplexity, Fandor had come to a decision the previous

night. Wishing to let his "dear master" know of his audacious project, he
had telephoned to Juve on the Sunday evening to ask him to come to the
flat. Then Vagualame had appeared on the scene. Fandor knew him to be an
agent of the Second Bureau. Evidently Vagualame was after Vinson. If
Fandor had let himself be caught in the corporal's uniform, which he had
just put on, his spy plans would have been ruined, and the corporal, to
whom he had promised his protection, would have been caught.
CHAPTER PAGE 141

Fandor fled. The situation would have to be made clear when opportunity
offered.

"Certainly," said Fandor to himself, with a smile: "things are pretty well
mixed up at present! That meeting between Vagualame and Juve at the flat
must have been a queer one! Two birds of a feather, though differing in
glory, who would not make head or tail of so unexpected a conference!"

To clear up the imbroglio, Fandor had meant to send Juve a wire on his
arrival at Verdun; on second thoughts he had decided against it. Probably
the spies, or the Second Bureau, or both, were keeping a sharp watch on
Vinson: it would be wiser to refrain from any communication which might
reveal the fact that the corporal Vinson, who joined the 257th of the line at
Verdun, was none other than Jérôme Fandor, journalist.

Though stiff with cold and fatigue, Fandor's brain was clear and active.

It is all right! Juve would be surprised, anxious, would make enquiries at

the Company's offices, would learn that on the Sunday evening Fandor had
occupied the place reserved for him in the sleeping-car, would be reassured,
would not worry about Fandor's abrupt departure and silence--Fandor was
holiday making!

"Yes, it is all right!" reiterated Fandor. "What I have to do is to throw

myself wholeheartedly into my part, and play it as jovially as possible!"

The train whistled, slowed down, entered the station of Verdun.

Fandor let the crowd of soldiers precede him, as well as one or two
civilians whom the night express had brought to this important frontier
fortress. Having readjusted his coat, the fringes of his epaulettes, and put on
his cap correctly, this corporal of the 257th line, stepped on to the platform,
reached the exit, passed out on to a vast flat space, and found himself
floundering in a sea of mud.
CHAPTER PAGE 142

The men who had arrived with him had hurried off: Fandor was alone on
the outskirts of the silent town.

What to do? Which way to go?

Under the flame of a gas-jet struggling against the onslaughts of the wind,
Fandor caught sight of the honest face of a constable enveloped in a thick
hooded coat. He eyed Fandor.

"Excuse me," said Corporal Vinson-Fandor, rolling his r's, in imitation of a

rustic fresh from the country, "but could you tell me where I shall find the
257th of the line?"

"What do you want with the 257th of the line?" queried the constable.

"It is like this, Monsieur: I was in the 214th, garrisoned at Châlons. I have
had eight days' leave, and they inform me I am attached to the 257th."

The constable nodded.

"And now you want to get to your new regiment?"

"Precisely."

"Well, the 257th is in three places: at bastion 14; at the Saint Benoit
barracks; and at Fort Vieux--which are you bound for, Corporal?"

"I don't know--I've no preference," murmured Corporal Vinson-Fandor.

The two men stood staring at each other in the rain.

Despite the chill and melancholy dawn, with its darkly reddening skies,
Fandor felt he was on the very verge of bursting into wild laughter.

"Let us see your route instructions," quoth the constable.

CHAPTER PAGE 143

Corporal Vinson-Fandor showed his paper.

"That's it!" cried the constable triumphantly. "You are down to report
yourself at the Saint Benoit barracks. You're in luck, my lad! It's only fifty
yards or so from here!... Go down the road, and you will see the barrack
wall on the left. The entrance is in the middle."

Fandor saluted the friendly constable, hurried off, and reached the Saint
Benoit gate in a few minutes.

"The 257th?" he asked the sentry.

"Here!... You will find the sergeant in the guard-room."

Fandor entered a smoke-filled room; several soldiers were stretched at full

length on a bench, slumbering: a snoring non-commissioned officer was
lying on three straw bottomed chairs close to a stove.

At Fandor's entrance he was wide awake in a moment: he swore: it was the

sergeant.

"What do you want?" he demanded roughly.

Adopting a military manner, Fandor announced:

"Corporal Vinson, just arrived from Châlons, exchanged from the 214th,
sergeant!"

"Ah! Quite so. Wait! I will show you your company."

Stretching himself, the sergeant marched to the end of the room, turned up
a gas-jet, opened a book, looked through the pages slowly. His finger
stopped at a name.

"Orderly!"
CHAPTER PAGE 144

A man presented himself.

"Conduct Corporal Vinson to A block, second floor."

Turning to Fandor, the sergeant informed him:

"You are attached to the third of the second."

While plodding through the mud of the courtyard, Fandor said to himself:

"The third of the second means, I suppose, that I have the honour of
belonging to the third company of the second battalion."

Fandor gazed with lively curiosity at the immense building in which he was
to pass his days and nights for he did not know how long a time. As he
scrutinised this enormous pile, standing harsh and stark in its
uncompromising and ordered strength, as he took stock of the vast
courtyards and the stony lengths of imprisoning walls, he got an idea of that
formidable organisation called a regiment, which itself is but an
infinitesimal part of that great whole we call an army. Appreciating as he
now did the importance, the immutability, the regularity of the movements
of the military machine, with its wheels within wheels, Fandor asked
himself if it were possible to carry through the programme he had drawn up
for himself. Could he, at one and the same time, trick the French Army and
save it?... He had taken his precautions: he had read and reread Vinson's
manual, now his manual. Mentally he had put himself in the skin of a
corporal: he was letter perfect, and now he must cover himself with the
mantle of Vinson--for the greater glory of France!

He could not help laughing when he read the list of his facial
characteristics: chin, round; nose, medium; face, oval; eyes, grey. Vague
enough this to be safe! Fandor's hair was dark chestnut: Vinson's was
brown. Vinson and Fandor were sufficiently alike as to height and figure:
besides, soldiers' uniforms were not an exact fit.
CHAPTER PAGE 145

"Here you are, Corporal!" announced the orderly. He pointed to a vast room
at the end of a corridor. The bugle had just sounded the reveille and the
barrack-room was humming like a hive of awakened bees. The orderly had
vanished. Fandor stood at the threshold, hesitating: his self-confidence had
gone down with a run. It was a momentary lapse. Pulling himself together
he walked into the room.

When giving him his instructions, Vinson had warned Fandor, that when it
came to settling down in barracks he would find nothing to hand.

"Among other little items, your bed will be missing. As corporal you have a
right to round on them. Row them hot and good--start reprisals straight
away. The men will pretend not to understand, but insist--don't take no for
an answer; take whatever you want right and left--in the end you will get
properly settled in."

Fandor carried out these instructions. Before he had been ten minutes in the
room, men were rushing in all directions, fussing, jostling one another,
coming, going, demanding of all the echoes in that huge white-washed barn
of a barrack-room dormitory:

"Where is the palliasse of Corporal Vinson!"

"Find me the bolster of Corporal Vinson!"

XIII

JUVE'S STRATAGEM

Whilst Jérôme Fandor was commencing his apprenticeship as a soldier at

the Saint Benoit barracks, Verdun, a sordid individual was following an
elegant pedestrian who, descending the rue Solférino, went in the direction
of the Seine. It was about seven in the evening.

"Pstt!"
CHAPTER PAGE 146

This sound issued from the ragged individual, but the passer-by did not turn
his head.

"Monsieur!" insisted the sordid one.

As the elegant pedestrian did not seem to know he was being followed, the
sordid individual stepped to his side, and murmured in his white beard
distinctly enough to be heard:

"Lieutenant! Do listen!... Look here, Monsieur de Loubersac ... Henri!"

The young man turned: he gave the importunate speaker a withering stare:
he was furious.

The speaker was Vagualame.

"I shall fine you five hundred francs! How dare you accost me like this?
Are you mad?" De Loubersac's voice shook with rage.

Lieutenant de Loubersac had just quitted the Second Bureau after an

unusually hard day's work. Fatigued by the over-heated offices, he was
enjoying the fresh air and exercise in spite of the chilling mist overhanging
Paris. When his thoughts were not connected on his work, he would dwell
tenderly on every little detail of his meetings with pretty Mademoiselle de
Naarboveck. Had she not given him permission to call her Wilhelmine, and
did he not cherish the hope of soon making her his wife?

But this Vagualame was insupportable! That he should dare to accost him
without observing the customary precautions--hail him by his style and title
in a most public thoroughfare---should so imprudently compromise himself
and an attaché of the Second Bureau! Well, he knew how to attack
informers and such gentry in their most vulnerable spot--their purse; hence
the fine of five hundred francs he had imposed on Vagualame!

The old fellow shuffled along beside the enraged lieutenant, whining,
complaining of the precarious state of his finances, but de Loubersac was
CHAPTER PAGE 147

adamant. Perceiving this, Vagualame desisted.

"I want to talk to you," said he.

"To-morrow!" suggested de Loubersac.

"No, at once. It is urgent."

De Loubersac could hardly hear what Vagualame said. Twice he cried, in

an irritated voice:

"What is the matter with you? I cannot understand what you say. I can
hardly hear you."

"I have a severe cold on the chest, lieutenant."

Certainly Vagualame's voice was remarkably hoarse.

"If the Government does not give me something regular to live on, I shall
die in hospital."

De Loubersac looked about him anxiously. If his colonel should catch sight
of him conferring with an agent so near the headquarters of the Second
Bureau he would incur a sharp reprimand. The interview must take place;
therefore they must conceal themselves. Vagualame, as though reading the
lieutenant's thought, pointed to the steep flight of steps leading to the banks
of the Seine.

"Let us go down by the river! We shall be undisturbed there!"

De Loubersac acquiesced. So the smart young officer and the old beggar in
his ragged coat, with the accordion hanging over his shoulder, who might
have been mistaken for Quasimodo himself, descended the steps in
company. Vagualame's eyes gleamed with joy. They were piercing eyes,
full of life and intelligence, not the fierce furtive eyes of Vagualame, for
this Vagualame was Juve!
CHAPTER PAGE 148

The day following the famous evening he had passed in Fandor's flat, Juve,
as we know, had discovered that Vagualame, agent of the Second Bureau,
was cleverly disguised, and was none other than Fantômas! Juve
appropriated the accordion left by the fleeing bandit: Juve also decided to
personate Vagualame and spy on the various persons who had relations
with this sinister being. As far as Juve was concerned,
Vagualame-Fantômas was done for, therefore it was highly improbable that
the criminal, daring to the last degree though he was, would show himself
in his Vagualame guise for some time to come. Therefore Juve must act at
once. His first move must be to meet and talk with the Second Bureau
officer most in touch with Vagualame, and make him talk without arousing
his suspicions. Juve also meant to mix with Vagualame's associates,
trusting to luck and his own perspicacity to get on to various trails, trails
that would lead him to the solution of grave problems.

Juve had felt anxious as he accosted de Loubersac: no doubt the lieutenant

and his secret agent had some set form of greeting, some agreed on method
of imparting information. By incurring the fine, Juve realised that he had
made a wrong start--perhaps omitted a password. Still, he had obtained the
essential thing--a private talk with this particular official of the Second
Bureau.

The talk began with an abrupt question from de Loubersac:

"And the V. affair?"

"The V. affair?... Peuh!"

"What the deuce does he refer to?" Juve was asking himself.

Unsuspecting, de Loubersac came to his aid.

"Our corporal must have returned to Verdun to-day?"

"Ah!" thought Juve, "our corporal is Vinson!" The further he proceeded in

his present investigations the clearer grew the connection between the
CHAPTER PAGE 149

Brocq affair and those of Bobinette, Wilhelmine, de Loubersac: surely they

were all interpreters of the tragic drama conceived by
Vagualame-Fantômas!

"His leave expired this morning," continued de Loubersac.

"He left yesterday evening. I have proof of it," asserted Juve-Vagualame.

"Anything new?"

"Not so far."

"Are you going to Verdun?"

"Possibly."

"How about the document?"

"Hum!" murmured Juve-Vagualame. Here was another conundrum he must

go warily.

"You are constantly looking for it, of course? You know it is the most
urgent of all!"...

Juve nodded agreement.

"Place it in my hands, and I shall give you fifty thousand francs in

exchange for it--you know that!"

"Less the fine," put in Juve-Vagualame with a comical grimace.

De Loubersac smiled.

"We will speak of that again." There was a pause.

"A good deal has happened since the death of Captain Brocq's mistress."
CHAPTER PAGE 150

Juve-Vagualame remarked.

"Is Captain Brocq's mistress dead, too?... Poor girl!"

De Loubersac stared hard at the accordion player.

"Oh come now, Vagualame! Where are your wits--wool-gathering?"

"Wits wool-gathering, lieutenant!" echoed Juve-Vagualame.

"There is no lieutenant, I tell you!" cried de Loubersac, with a stamp of his

foot. "It is Monsieur Henri--just Henri, if you like. How many more times
am I to tell you this?"

Juve-Vagualame's reply was an equivocal gesture.

"You do not know about the Châlons affair--the assassination of the singer,
Nichoune?"

"No--that is to say."...

"Well, then?" De Loubersac was staring at Vagualame with puzzled eyes.

"Well, then--as to that--no!... I had better hold my tongue."

"Speak out!" commanded de Loubersac.

"No," growled Juve-Vagualame.

"I order you to do so."

"Well, then," conceded Juve-Vagualame, "since you must know what I

think, I consider Nichoune was in no sense the mistress of Captain Brocq."

"They found letters from Captain Brocq on her." De Loubersac's laugh had
a sneer in it.
CHAPTER PAGE 151

"Bah!" said the old accordion player, punctuating his remark with some
piercing sounds from his ancient instrument of discordant music. "It was a
got-up business!"

"What is that you say?" objected de Loubersac. After a moment's reflection

he added:

"But of course, you must know more about it than anyone, Vagualame,
because you saw her just before the end. Didn't you have a talk with
Nichoune on the Friday, the eve of her death?"

Juve-Vagualame was about to speak. De Loubersac added:

"The innkeeper saw you!"

"Did he now? What is this?" thought Juve. This statement opened up a

fresh view of things.

De Loubersac did not give him time for reflection.

"Who, then, do you think killed Nichoune?"

Juve would not for the world voice his suspicions just then. With a
side-glance at the lieutenant, he remarked:

"Faith, what I am inclined to think is, that the guilty person is that Aunt
Palmyra."

"Aunt Palmyra!" repeated de Loubersac. "Decidedly my poor Vagualame,

you are stupid as an owl to-day! Well, there is no harm in telling you
this--Aunt Palmyra was one of my colleagues!"

"I suspected as much," thought Juve, "but I wanted him to confirm it."

De Loubersac was again the questioner.

CHAPTER PAGE 152

"Vagualame! You spoke just now of Brocq's mistress: if, as you seem to
think, Nichoune had no such relation with the captain, where are we to look
for his mistress?"

"Hah!... Look in another direction ... among his friends ... in the great world
... the diplomatic set, for preference ... Think of those in the de Naarboveck
circle."...

"Look out, Vagualame!" exclaimed de Loubersac. "Weigh your words

well!"

"Do not be afraid, lieu ... pardon--Monsieur Henri!"

"Perhaps you think it is Bobinette?" queried de Loubersac.

"No."

"Who then?"

Juve shot his answer at the lieutenant, like a stone from a catapult.

"Wilhelmine de Naarboveck!"

A shout of indignant protest burst from de Loubersac. He could not contain

his fury: he kicked the supposed Vagualame with such force that he sent
him rolling in the greasy mud of the Seine bank.

"Beast!" growled Juve, as he picked himself up. "If I were not Vagualame,
I should know how to answer him," he muttered. "As it is!"...

Juve rose, stumbling and staggering like a badly shaken old man, and
leaned against the hand railing of the steps.

Meanwhile de Loubersac was walking up and down, talking aloud, in a

state of extreme agitation.
CHAPTER PAGE 153

"Disgusting creatures!... Low-minded wretches!... Degrading occupation!...

They respect nothing, and no one!... Insinuating such abominations!...
Wilhelmine de Naarboveck the mistress of Brocq!... How vile!...
Loathsome creatures!"

It was now obvious to the alert Juve, who drank in every word, each
gesture of de Loubersac's that the enraged lieutenant adored Wilhelmine ...
no doubt on that score!

When de Loubersac had calmed down somewhat, Juve cried softly:

"Oh, Monsieur Henri!"...

Roused from his reflections, de Loubersac shouted:

"Hold your tongue, you sicken me!"

"But," insisted Juve-Vagualame, "I have only done my duty. If I spoke as I

did, it was because my conscience."...

"Have you got consciences--your sort?" cried de Loubersac, casting a

glance of withering contempt at the supposed old man.

There was a silence. Then de Loubersac walked up to the old accordion

player and asked anxiously:

"Can you give me proofs of the truth of what you have just asserted?"

"Perhaps," was the evasive answer.

"You will have to give me proofs," insisted de Loubersac.

"Proofs?... I have none," replied the mysterious old fellow. "But I have
intuitions; better still, my confidence is grounded on a strong probability."
CHAPTER PAGE 154

This statement came to de Loubersac with the force of a stunning blow: it

came from one whom he considered his best agent: he knew Vagualame
always weighed his words: his information was generally correct.

"We cannot continue this conversation here," he said. "To-morrow we must

meet as usual--and remember--do not attempt to accost me without using
the password."

"Now, how the deuce am I to know what this famous word is?" Juve asked
himself. Then he had an inspiration.

"We must not use it again," he announced. "I have reason to think our
customary password is known ... I will explain another time ... it is a
regular story--a long one."

"All right," agreed de Loubersac. "What should it be?... Suppose I say

monoplane?"

"I will answer dirigible," said Juve-Vagualame.

"Agreed."

De Loubersac rapidly mounted the steps leading to the quay, glad to close a
detestable interview.

Juve-Vagualame remained below. He struck his forehead.

"Monsieur Henri!" he called.

"What?"

"The meeting place to-morrow?"

De Loubersac had just signalled to a taxi: he leaned over the parapet and
called to Juve-Vagualame, who had got no farther than the middle of the
steps:
CHAPTER PAGE 155

"Why at half past three, in the garden, as usual!"

*****

"Oh, ho!" said the old accordion player. "He will be furious! I shall play
him false--bound to--for how can I keep the appointment--confound it!
What garden? Whereabouts in it?" Then, as he regained the quay, Juve
laughed in his false white beard.

"What do I care? I snap my fingers at that rendezvous. I have extracted

from him what I wanted to know--it matters not a jot if I never set eyes on
him again! And ... now ... it is we two, Bobinette!"

XIV

BEFORE A TOMB

"This is a surprise!"

Mademoiselle de Naarboveck stopped. She smiled up at Henri de

Loubersac.

"Do you know, I saw in this glass that you were following us," she said,
pointing to a mirror placed at an angle in a confectioner's shop at the corner
of rue Biot.

These artless remarks put the handsome lieutenant out of countenance: he

blushed hotly, but he pressed the little hand held out to him so simply, and
with such a look of frank pleasure. He stammered some excuse for not
having recognised her. He bowed pleasantly to Wilhelmine's companion,
Mademoiselle Berthe.

Wilhelmine turned to her.

"This meeting was not prearranged: it is one of pure chance." The tone was
defensive without a touch of the apologetic.
CHAPTER PAGE 156

Mademoiselle Berthe smiled, and declared that she had not for a moment
supposed that the meeting had been prearranged.

De Loubersac gazed considerably at the two girls. Wilhelmine was looking

particularly pretty. Beneath her fur toque shone masses of her pale gold
hair, framing a charming little face. A long velvet coat with ermine stole
suggested the youthful contours of her slender figure. Mademoiselle Berthe
wore rough blue cloth, and a large hat trimmed with wings, which set off
her piquant face with its irregular features and ruddy locks.

Wilhelmine and Henri de Loubersac strolled on together in the direction of

the Hippodrome. Mutual protestations of love were, exchanged. Presently
Wilhelmine asked:

"But what brought you in this direction?"

"Oh, I was going ... to pay a visit ... it is a piece of very good luck my
coming across you like this."

De Loubersac seemed to have something on his mind. Despite his

protestations he did not look as if he were enjoying this chance meeting.

"Where were you bound for, Wilhelmine?" he asked.

She looked up at her lover with sad eyes. Pointing in the direction of the
cemetery of Montemartre, she replied in a low tone:

"I am going to visit the dear dead."

"Would you allow me to accompany you?" begged de Loubersac.

Wilhelmine shook her head.

"I must ask you to allow me to go there alone. It is my custom to pray there
without witnesses."
CHAPTER PAGE 157

De Loubersac turned towards Mademoiselle Berthe with a questioning

look--a gesture of interrogation.

Wilhelmine replied to it:

"As a rule I go to the cemetery alone. You see me with my companion

to-day because my father wished it. Since the sad affair which has thrown a
shadow over our life, he is in a constant state of anxiety about my safety: he
does not wish me to go about unaccompanied. I shall be waited for at the
cemetery."

Wilhelmine's candid eyes gazed at de Loubersac, who was gnawing his

moustache with a preoccupied air.

"What is the matter, Henri?" she asked.

De Loubersac came closer to Wilhelmine, grew red as fire, and without

daring to look her in the face, burst out:

"Listen, Wilhelmine! I would rather tell you everything.... Oh, you are
going to think badly of me.... The truth is--our meeting is not accidental ...
it is of set purpose on my part.... For the last two days I have been
worried--preoccupied--jealous.... I am afraid of not being loved by you as I
love you ... afraid that there is ... or was ... something between us--dividing
us--someone."...

Wilhelmine looked at her lover with the eyes of an astonished child.

"I do not understand you," she murmured.

Mastering his emotion, de Loubersac decided to make a clean breast of it.

"I will be frank, Wilhelmine.... Your last words have increased my

torture.... Have you not spoken of your dear dead, and must I learn that you
are perhaps going to pray ... at the tomb of Captain Brocq?"
CHAPTER PAGE 158

More and more astonished, Wilhelmine replied:

"And suppose I were going to do so? Should I be doing wrong to pray for
the repose of the soul of the unfortunate Captain Brocq, who was one of my
best friends?"

"Ah!" cried Henri de Loubersac: "Is it love you feel for him, then?" He
looked so despairing that Wilhelmine, offended, hurt though she was by her
lover's suspicions, pitied his anguish and reassured him:

"If you had been following me for some time past, you would have seen
that I have been in the habit of going to this cemetery--have gone there
regularly long before Captain Brocq's death--consequently."...

Wilhelmine, with a look of sorrowful disappointment, closed her lips: she

was resolutely mute.

Henri de Loubersac brightened up, thanked her with a frankness so

spontaneous, so sincere, that it would have touched the hardest woman's
heart, and Wilhelmine's was a supremely tender and sensitive one. Yet,
when he again asked for whom she was going to pray, for whom was the
delicious bouquet of violets she was carrying, half hidden in her muff, she
murmured:

"That is my secret.... If I told you the name of the person at whose tomb I
am going to pray, it would have no significance for you."

"Wilhelmine! Let me accompany you!" implored de Loubersac.... "I love

you so much--you must forgive my blundering!"

The lovers discussed the question: finally, Wilhelmine's hesitations were

overcome: de Loubersac carried the day triumphantly.

Mademoiselle Berthe had fallen behind: she had kept a discreet distance
between the lovers and herself, but had watched them with the eyes of a
lynx. Now Wilhelmine waited for her to come up with them; then she
CHAPTER PAGE 159

requested her companion to stay in the quiet avenue Rachel while she and
Lieutenant de Loubersac went into the cemetery.

*****

No sooner had they disappeared than Bobinette set off as fast as she could
go in the direction of the boulevard de Clichy. Yes, there was the sordid
figure of Old Vagualame, bent under the weight of years and of his ancient
accordion: he seemed to be stooping more than usual.

Had he also followed them? He had. Thus Juve-Vagualame was continuing

his quest with the hope of getting further light on the series of mysteries he
was seeking to solve. He must learn more of Bobinette's relations with
Fantômas, whom she apparently knew only under the guise of Vagualame.
Juve had made himself up so carefully that he felt confident even the
bandit's intimates would not suspect they had to do with a police officer. Its
quality was soon proved: Bobinette came towards him with not a sign of
uneasiness.

"There you are, then!" she cried.

In spite of her familiar address, Juve noticed the touch of respect in

Bobinette's voice--Vagualame played the part of master to this red-haired
girl.

"What a long time it is since one had the pleasure of seeing you, my dear
Monsieur Vagualame!" There was a touch of malicious irony in Bobinette's
tone.

Juve-Vagualame nodded. He would have liked to know what Wilhelmine

and Henri were doing in the cemetery, but Bobinette was his query for the
moment. Her next remark was startling.

"It looks as though you were afraid to show yourself since your last crime."

Juve repressed any sign of the satisfaction this declaration gave him.
CHAPTER PAGE 160

"My last crime?"

"Don't play the blockhead," she went on. "Have you forgotten that you told
me how you had assassinated Captain Brocq?"

"That is ancient history," muttered Juve, "... and I am not afraid of

anyone.... Besides ... did I tell you that now?" he hinted, with the hope of
obtaining further details. But Bobinette seemed to think she had had
enough of the subject. She laughed.

"What a way of walking you have!" she exclaimed.

Juve was purposely exaggerating Vagualame's attitude: it enabled him to

conceal his face better.

"I stoop so much because my age weighs me down.... When you grow
old."...

Bobinette burst into peals of laughter.

"You don't think, do you, Vagualame, that I take you for an old man? Ha,
ha! I know you are disguised; made up admirably, I dare say, but you are a
young man.... I am quite, quite sure of it!"

Juve was saying to himself:

"This grows better and better!"

Juve's conviction was that this old Vagualame, secret agent of the Second
Bureau, murderer of Captain Brocq, the Vagualame he had encountered at
Fandor's flat, could only be a young man in the flower of his age--could be
none other than Fantômas.

Juve was about to put more questions to Bobinette, but two figures came
into view, and they were nearing the avenue Rachel.
CHAPTER PAGE 161

"Make off with you!" cried Bobinette. "There they are coming back!"

Juve did not wish de Loubersac to catch a glimpse of him: he would be

surprised, suspicious, and would question him about the missed
rendezvous. Juve had not gained sufficient information, however.

"I must see you again, Bobinette." His tone was pressing, insistent.

"When?"

"This evening."

"Impossible."

"To-morrow, then."

Bobinette shook her head.

"You know very well that to-morrow I shall be gone."

"Where?"

"Where?"

The red-haired beauty cried impatiently:

"It's you ask me that?... Why ... I go to the frontier."

"Correct," said Juve. He would have welcomed further details. "Well, then,
when can we meet?" pressed this determined accordion player.

"How about next Wednesday?" suggested Bobinette.

"That will do. We will go to the theatre--a moving picture show!"

"Always to places in the dark, eh!" observed Bobinette maliciously.

CHAPTER PAGE 162

Wilhelmine and Henri were coming nearer.

Juve-Vagualame turned as he was making off.

"Nine o'clock, before the moving picture place, rue des Poissonniers." With
that, Juve-Vagualame disappeared into a smoky wine shop.

De Loubersac, very pale, and Wilhelmine, whose eyes were red, rejoined
Bobinette, whose face became expressionless.

They went slowly off together.

*****

When the coast was clear, Juve-Vagualame left the wine shop and
proceeded towards the cemetery. Amid the cypresses and tombs of the
necropolis, looming sad and shadowy in the fading light, he made his way
slowly along the principal path, questing for traces of the lovers' footsteps
in the sand. He was fortunate enough to come on them at once; the soil
being moist, the lovers' footmarks could be clearly distinguished in the sand
of the alleys. Guided by them, Juve turned into a little pathway on the right,
passing the mausoleums, and pausing before a new-made grave, that of
Captain Brocq, a humble tomb. A few fresh violets were scattered around
it, from Wilhelmine's bunch, no doubt. The lovers had but tarried there.
Juve continued to follow their footmarks, by many twists and turns, almost
to the end of the cemetery. As he advanced he felt more and more certain
that he had come this way some years ago, when his detective work had led
him into a mysterious network of robberies and murders, the moving spirit
of them all being Fantômas--the enigmatic Fantômas.

Juve was going over in memory those past days of mysterious doings and
strange adventures, when he found himself facing a vault richly decorated
with unusually beautiful sculpture. A bronze plaque was affixed to this
tomb, and on it, engraved in letters of gold, was a name Juve had had
occasion to utter many a time and oft:
CHAPTER PAGE 163

Lady Beltham

Lady Beltham!

Lady Beltham?

A name Juve associated with strange and terrible events.[3] Lady Beltham
had been a sensational creature.

[Footnote 3: See The Exploits of Juve, vol. ii of the Fantômas Series.]

After adventures, one more extraordinary than another, Juve had succeeded
in identifying this English great lady as the mistress of a formidable
criminal, relentlessly hunted down, for ever escaping--the elusive
Fantômas!

Juve had lost track of both, when the discovery of an extraordinary crime
had led to the identification of the victim, a woman: she was declared to
be--Lady Beltham. The corpse had been buried in this very cemetery;
distant relatives in England had guaranteed all expenses connected with the
burial and erection of this costly tomb.

The public had believed this to be the end of Lady Beltham. Juve presently
discovered that Lady Beltham was not dead: another woman had been
buried in her place. He preserved absolute silence convinced that sooner or
later this criminal great lady--for, in conjunction with Fantômas, she had
committed abominable crimes--would reappear, and he could then arrest
her. Time had passed, but for all his efforts Juve could not discover the
hiding-place of this strangely guilty woman.

When he saw a large bunch of violets lying before the door of Lady
Beltham's vault, he divined them to be the offering of Wilhelmine.

Juve now asked himself if he had not come across this Wilhelmine in the
past, this girl with pale gold hair, and clear deep eyes; if he had not, in the
long ago, met under painful circumstances a little child who was now this
CHAPTER PAGE 164

pretty girl, beloved of Henri de Loubersac. Juve did not dwell on these
vague, floating impressions. He turned his attention to more definite points.

There were people who believed in the death of Lady Beltham; they were
in the majority: among these was Wilhelmine de Naarboveck. Why did she
come to pray at Lady Beltham's tomb and bring offerings of fragrant
flowers?

A mere handful of people knew Lady Beltham was not dead; knew that
another woman had been interred in her stead. Lady Beltham herself knew
it; her accomplice and lover--Fantômas--must know it. Besides, these two
there was Jérôme Fandor who knew of the substitution, and there was Juve
himself. What others could there be?

Twilight was deepening into darkness. The cemetery guardians were

clearing it of visitors. Juve became once more the old accordion player.

As he made his way home on foot, he asked himself:

"What are they looking for?"

The military authorities, represented by the Second Bureau, want to recover

a stolen document.... The civil authority, represented by Police
Headquarters, wish to discover a murderer guilty of two crimes: the murder
of Brocq--the murder of Nichoune.

The murderer of Brocq is assuredly Vagualame: as to the murderer of

Nichoune: I do not yet know under what guise he committed his crime, but
of one thing I am certain--the author of this double crime is none other
than--Fantômas!

XV

THE TRAITOR'S APPRENTICESHIP

CHAPTER PAGE 165

Although for the past four days Fandor had shown himself the most
punctual, the most correct, the most brilliant of French corporals, although
he had replaced the unfortunate Vinson with striking ability, it was never
without a feeling of bewildered terror that he awoke each morning in the
vast barrack-room at Saint-Benoit, Verdun.

No sooner was he dressed than he found himself in the thick of a life made
up of fears, of ever-recurring alarms, a nightmare life, the strain of which
was concealed by an alert confident manner, a gallant bearing. Never
having done his military service, since legally he did not exist--it was the
cruelest mystery in our journalist's life--Fandor had played his corporal's
rôle by intuition, combined with a trained power of observation, Vinson's
manual, and Vinson's verbal instructions. Vinson, for his own sake most of
all, had utilised every minute, and had put the eager Fandor through several
turns of the military mill.

Nevertheless, whenever he gave an order to the men of his squad, he asked

himself with terror, whether he had not inadvertently committed some gross
blunder, whether some inferior might not call out ironically:

"I say, Corporal Vinson, where the devil have you come from to be
carrying on like that?"

"Suppose I were found out," he thought, "I wonder if they would shoot me
forthwith, to teach me not to run such mad risks in search of information
for police reports?"

On this particular morning, Fandor awoke with a stronger feeling of

uneasiness than ever. The previous evening, the adjutant for the week had
drawn him apart at roll-call, and had handed him a slip of paper.

"You have a day's leave! You have joined only four days, yet you have
managed to obtain your evening! Smart work! Congratulations! By jove,
you must have some powerful backing!"

Fandor had smiled, saluted, marched off to bed--but not to sleep.

CHAPTER PAGE 166

"A day's leave! The devil's in it! Who signed for me? What is the next
move to be?" he thought.

This very morning, at ten o'clock delivery, the post sergeant had handed
him a card. It bore the Paris postmark: on it was drawn the route from
Verdun to the frontier. That was all.

He remembered what Vinson had said to him in the flat:

"What is so terrifying about this spying business is that one never knows
whom one is obeying, whose orders one ought to follow, who is your
friend, who is your chief: one fine day you learn that you have had leave
granted you: you then receive, in some way or another, directions to go to
some place or another.... You go there ... you meet people you do not know,
who ask you questions, sometimes seemingly trivial, sometimes obviously
of the gravest importance.... It is up to you to find out whether you are face
to face with your spy chiefs, or if, on the contrary, you have not fallen into
a trap set by the police to catch spies.... You cannot go to a rendezvous with
a quiet mind: how do you know that you will not be returned between two
gendarmes!... It is impossible to ask for information: equally impossible to
ask for help, should you be in imminent danger.... Spies do not know one
another: they are disowned by whoever employs them: they are humble
wheels hidden in an immense mechanism.... It matters little if they are
broken to pieces, they can so easily be replaced!"

Fandor's recollection of these statements did not tend to make him cheerful.
He summed up the situation, and came to a decision.

"I have been given leave I did not ask for: somebody must have asked it for
me. This 'someone' is the chief spy, already in touch with Vinson, or the
chief spy at Verdun, who has been warned of Vinson's arrival: the post card
I received from an unknown individual has nothing on it but the indications
of a route already known to me, that from Verdun to the frontier. I shall
follow that route as a pedestrian, and I look forward to meeting some
interesting persons on the way."
CHAPTER PAGE 167

Surrounded by the noisy disorder of the barrack room, amidst men rising
hastily that they might not be reported missing at the morning muster,
which would shortly take place in the courtyard, Fandor-Vinson dressed
quickly. He put on his sword-belt, ascertained that his servant had
sufficiently polished the brass buttons on his tunic, his sabre, and other
trappings. The adjutant for the week entered.

"You are off at once, Vinson?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good! I will arrange for the fatigues--very pleased to! Ah, you are new
here, are you not? Well, I will give you a bit of good advice. Be in the
barracks on the stroke of the hour. Remember, men on leave must not play
tricks with punctuality."

"Right, sir!"

The adjutant turned sharp about and went off.

"He is jolly amiable, that's sure!" was Fandor's comment.... "I wonder, if by
chance."...

Since Fandor had so rashly mixed himself up in this spy business, he was
inclined to see everywhere traitors and accomplices; but he reminded
himself that he must beware of preconceived ideas.

*****

It was on the stroke of seven when Fandor showed his permit to the
sergeant at the gate of the barracks.

"Here's one who's going to amuse himself," grumbled the sergeant. "Pass,
Corporal!"

Fandor smiled joyously: but the smile did not express his real feelings.
CHAPTER PAGE 168

Instead of making directly for the road to the frontier, he strolled about the
town, went by roundabout ways, returned on his steps, assuring himself that
he was not being shadowed.

The day was fine; a slight violet haze lingered in the hollows; the air, fresh
but not chill, was deliciously pure. Fandor walked along the high road at a
smart pace. He turned over in his mind certain warnings given him by
Vinson.

"When an individual knows he is going to a rendezvous he makes a point of

talking to every person he meets whom he thinks likely to be the individual
he is to have dealings with."

But Fandor did not see a soul to speak to. The highway was deserted, and
the fields lay empty and desolate as far as an eye could reach. Not a toiling
peasant was to be seen.

He had been walking for over an hour, quite determined to carry this
adventure through to the end, when, from the top of a hill he caught sight of
a motor-car drawn up on one of the lower slopes of the road.

"They may, or may not, be the individuals I am out to meet," he thought:

"but I am glad enough to meet some human beings.... I shall stroll near their
car, which seems out of action: it will help pass the time."

He went up to the motor-car. There were two people in it; a man clad in an
immensely valuable fur coat, and a young priest, so muffled up in rugs and
wraps and cloaks that only his two eyes could be seen.

Just as he got up to them, he heard the priest say in a tart voice to the man
in the fur coat, now standing in the road:

"Whatever is the matter? What has gone wrong with your car now?"

The priest's smart companion exclaimed in a tone of comic despair:

CHAPTER PAGE 169

"It is not the right front tire this time: it is the back tire, the left one, that is
punctured!"

"Ought I to get out?"

"By no means! Do not stir! I am going to put the lifting-jack under the car,
and shall replace the damaged tire in no time."

Fandor was only a few yards off.

The man in the fur coat, evidently his own chauffeur, half turned towards
the soldier, adding:

"Unfortunately, my jack does not work very well, I doubt if I can succeed
unaided in getting it under the wheel-base."

"Can I give you a lift?" asked Fandor.

The chauffeur turned with a smile.

"That is very kind of you, Corporal.... I will not refuse your help."

From a box he extracted a lifting-jack which, to Fandor's expert eye, did not
seem to function so badly as all that. The chauffeur slipped it under the car.
Fandor lent an experienced hand, and lifted the wheel, whose tire had just
given up the ghost.

"There, Monsieur! These punctures are the cause of endless delays,"

remarked Fandor, for the sake of saying something. The priest shrugged,
and said in a disagreeable tone:

"Our tires have come to grief twice already this morning!"

The chauffeur was busied with his car fiddling with the machinery. He shot
a question at Fandor:
CHAPTER PAGE 170

"Are we far from Verdun?"

"Five or six kilometres."

"No more?"

"About that, Monsieur."

The chauffeur stood upright.

"It is Verdun, then, we can see over there?"

"What do you mean?" queried Fandor.

"That belfry in the mist."

"That is not a belfry: it is a chimney, the bakehouse chimney."

"Of the new bakehouse, then?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"I had an idea it was not finished."...

"It is not finished, but it soon will be--in a matter of six months."...

"Ah! Good!... Now tell me is there no railway along the route we are
following?"

"No. They intend laying down a line for strategic purposes, but they have
not started on it yet."

The chauffeur smiled approval, while continuing to tinker at his machine.

"Ah, these projects!" he remarked. "They are long in coming to

anything--these French administrative projects!"
CHAPTER PAGE 171

"Well!... Yes."

There was a pregnant silence.

Fandor thought: "This grows interesting: it is quite on the cards that this
tourist may be."...

"Ouf!" exclaimed the chauffeur, suddenly jumping up. "A stiff job this,
Corporal! Will you be good enough to lend me a hand again?"

"Certainly."

"Oh, not just at once!... Let me rest a few moments! Doubled up as I have
been, my back feels positively broken."

The stranger took a few steps along the road. He pointed to the horizon.

"One has a pretty view here!... You know this part of the country,
Corporal?"

"So, so!... Fairly well."

"Ah! Then you can give me some information!... What is that other big
chimney down there?... Do you see it?... Between those trees! Those two
trees--there!"

"It is the chimney of the bell foundry."

"Ah, yes, I have heard that foundry mentioned, it is true.... It seems to be

quite near!"

Fandor shook his head.

"It seems to be--but, by the road, it is a good eleven kilometres away."

"As much as that? As the crow flies it is close to."

CHAPTER PAGE 172

"Yes. It seems so."

The chauffeur insisted:

"But, how far do you think it is, Corporal, from here to it, in a straight
line?... They ought to teach you to measure distances in your regiment!"

Fandor was no longer in doubt: this man was the spy he was out to meet!
Fandor once again recalled Vinson's words: "When one has to do with a
fresh spy chief, it is a certain thing that he will make you pass a little kind
of examination ... will put you through a regular cross-examination to
ascertain your capacities--what you are made of!"

Corporal Fandor-Vinson replied instantly:

"As the crow flies, I calculate it is not more than four kilometres. The road
winds a great deal."

"Good! Good!" cried the chauffeur. "I should have said so, also."

It seemed to Fandor that the man in the costly fur coat hesitated, was on the
point of asking a question, thought better of it, turned away, went back to
his car. He called out:

"Look here, Corporal! Since you are so kind, help me with this lever!"

That was soon done. The inquisition recommenced.

"Have you been long with the Verdun garrison?"

"Oh, no! Only a few days!"

"You are not bored?"

"Why should I be?"

CHAPTER PAGE 173

"I mean--you do not find the discipline severe?"

Fandor tried to find out what the man in the fur coat was driving at.

"Oh, I have not much to complain of: I can get leave pretty easily."

"And that is always pleasant," remarked the man in the fur coat. "Young
soldiers in garrison towns have a deuced poor time of it--is that not so?...
And they do not know how to amuse themselves when they have leave....
But, no doubt you have friends here, Corporal?"

"I do not know a soul in Verdun."

"Ah, well, since you have been so obliging, it would give me pleasure to
introduce you to some people, if you would care for it?... You would find
them amusing."

"You have friends in Verdun, sir?" asked Fandor in his turn.

"I know a few people: so does the abbé who accompanies me. I have it!...
an idea ... Corporal, come at six o'clock this evening ... no, seven o'clock,
and very punctually, and ask for me at the printing office of the Noret
Brothers. They are real good fellows! You will find some youngsters of
your own age there. You will find you have much in common. I am sure
they will prove useful acquaintances."

The man in the fur coat accented the word "useful."

This told Fandor that there was business on hand at the printing works--and
he was to be involved in it.

"You are really too kind, sir!... I do not wish to."...

"Not at all! Not at all! It is nothing! And you have been so obliging!...
Come to the Noret's at seven without fear of being considered an intruder!"
CHAPTER PAGE 174

The man in the fur coat accentuated the word "fear" significantly. He set his
motor going and jumped into the car.

"Again, many thanks, Corporal! I do not offer to take you back to Verdun,
as my car has only two seats! Till this evening, then!"

The car moved off, rapidly putting on speed.

"There goes the chief spy!" thought Fandor. "Never set eyes on the fellow
before, nor heard his voice, either! Now, whom shall I meet to-night at this
cursed rendezvous, and what is the business? Some traitorous deviltry, of
course!"

*****

It was striking seven when Fandor presented himself at the Noret printing
works.

He rang: he was admitted, and shown into a waiting-room. There was a

touch of the convent parlour about it. The man who had opened to him
asked:

"What name shall I give to the gentlemen, Monsieur?"

"Tell them it is Corporal Vinson."

Fandor's heart was beating like a sledge hammer as the minutes dragged by:
it was an eternity of waiting! A flock of suspicions crowded his mind:
might he not have fallen into a trap?

At last a tall, thin, red-bearded young man walked into the room: he greeted
Fandor-Vinson with:

"Good evening, Corporal. Our mutual friends have informed us that we

might expect you. They have not arrived yet; but there is no need to wait
for a regular introduction--what do you think?"
CHAPTER PAGE 175

"You are too kind, Monsieur. A simple corporal like myself is very
fortunate to find friends in a garrison town."

"To pass the time till our friends arrive, what do you say to visiting the
workshops?... You will find it interesting ... and useful."

"That word 'useful' again!" thought Fandor. "Decidedly there is business

afoot to-night!"

His guide expanded.

"In Paris they despise provincial industries! They pretend to believe that no
good work is done--can be done--in country districts.... It is a mistaken
notion! Examine our machines!"

The red-bearded young man ushered Fandor into the workshops. They were
extensive, spacious.

"Here is the machine which prints off The Beacon of Verdun!" he

explained. "You can see for yourself that it is the latest model! Do you
know anything about the working of these machines?"

Fandor could hardly restrain his laughter.

"What would this guide of mine think if he knew that for a good many
years I have had to cross the machine-room of La Capitale every evening,
and consequently have been able to see and admire printing machines of a
very different quality of perfection to this one he has praised so
emphatically?"

Fandor-Vinson played up.

"It seems to me a marvellous machine! I should like to see it working!"

The red-bearded young man smiled.

CHAPTER PAGE 176

"Come here some afternoon, and I will show you the machine in full
work!... Come soon!"

He led Fandor to another part of the printing-room.

"Do you know anything about linotypes?"

Again Fandor-Vinson played the admirer's part, though he knew these

machines were out-of-date.

"What is his game?" was our journalist's mental query.

The answer soon came. His guide led him to a strange-looking object
concealed by some grey material. It might well be a cabinet for storing
odds and ends, but Fandor felt sure the grey stuff covered something
metallic.

"See, Corporal, this will please you!" said the red-bearded young man. He
uncovered the object.

"You know what it is, do you, Corporal?"

"Not in the least!"

"A machine for making bank-notes!"

"Really! You manufacture bank-notes, do you?" remarked Fandor. His tone

was non-committal.

"You shall see for yourself, Corporal! Of course they are only made for the
fun of the thing--still, they might happen to prove useful--one never
knows!"

Again the marked accent on "useful."

Again Fandor-Vinson played up.

CHAPTER PAGE 177

"I should like to have a squint at those holy-joke notes!"

"I was going to suggest it!"

Turning a handle, the red-bearded young man put the machine in motion.

"Place yourself there, Corporal! Put your hands to it! You shall see what
will happen!"

Fandor did as directed.

"Hold out your hands!"

Fandor-Vinson held out his hands.

A new fifty-franc note fell into them.

"What do you say to that? Is it not a good--a perfect imitation?" The

red-bearded young man's tone was triumphant.

Fandor-Vinson examined it.

"That it certainly is," he acquiesced.

"Here are more!... Look!... Take them!"

Nine notes fell into the outstretched hands of Corporal Fandor-Vinson of

the 257th of the line, stationed at Verdun.

Our journalist had sharp eyes. He was no longer puzzling over this
performance.

"Look here, Corporal! Keep these notes if they amuse you!" said the
red-bearded young man, smiling.

"You might even try to pass them off, if the joke appeals to you!"
CHAPTER PAGE 178

Fandor's replies were monosyllables: he was watching the machine.

"What a childish trick!" he said to himself: "Why, these notes dropped into
my hands are real!... This machine does not print anything!... My new
friend has slipped these notes under the rollers as payment for future
treachery, expected betrayals--it is a way of paying me!"

Corporal Fandor-Vinson found the necessary words to show he fully

understood the quality of the payment--its real value. Supposing that no
more would be required of him, he tried to get free of this spy, and leave
the premises, but his red-bearded paymaster had other views.

"Now, Corporal," said he, "shall we empty a bottle together in honour of

our meeting?"

Fandor was far from wishing to clink glasses with the spy: still, needs must
when the devil drives you into a tight corner of your own choosing! The
offer was accepted with feigned pleasure. Corporal Fandor-Vinson kept a
smiling face, whilst, glass in hand, he talked trivialities with his host.

At last Corporal Fandor-Vinson rose:

"My leave has not expired, it is true, Monsieur," he said, "but I have some
rounds to make. Pray excuse me!"

The thin, red-bearded young man did not seek to detain him. The interview
was at an end: the business done for that evening.

"You will return, will you not, Corporal?" asked his host. "We are at your
disposal, I and my brother, whenever you have need of us--our friends also.
They will regret having arrived too late to meet you!... And, Corporal ... we
know some officers--if you want leave now and again--you must let us
know--will you not?"

Corporal Fandor-Vinson said the expected things, and hastened away, glad
to be quit of this red-bearded young spy of a printer. He hurried off towards
CHAPTER PAGE 179

the centre of the town, covering his tracks as Juve had taught him how to
do. He had time to spare before returning to barracks. He entered a small
café and ordered a drink.

"Behold me one of the precious spy circle of Verdun," thought he. "I must
make the most of my privileges."

His glass remained untouched while he sat thinking long and deeply.

XVI

AT THE ELYSÉE BALL

The ball was in full swing. There was a crush in the brilliantly lighted
reception-rooms of the Elysée. Prominent members of Parliament,
diplomats, officers naval and military, representatives of the higher circles
of commerce, and finance, rubbed shoulders with the undistinguished, at
the official reception given in honour of Japan's new ambassador, Prince
Ito. The prince was stationed in the centre of the inmost drawing-room,
gorgeously arrayed in his national costume, a delicate smile on his lips as
he watched the President's guests with bright shrewd eyes, while music
from an invisible Hungarian band floated on the air.

In this particular room two men were in earnest conversation: Colonel

Hofferman and Lieutenant de Loubersac.

"Well, Lieutenant, I have been too pressed for time to-day to see you ... but,
Heaven knows, I have not forgotten for a moment the matter I entrusted to
you.... They are causing me the greatest anxiety."...

"I can well understand that, Colonel."...

"Anything new?"

"No, Colonel.... That is to say--I ought to say 'No' to you."...

CHAPTER PAGE 180

"What the devil do you mean?" The colonel stared at his junior a moment;
then, taking him by the arm, said in a confidential tone:

"Let us take a turn in the garden, it is not cold.... We had better have our
talk away from such a collection as this ... one does not know who or what
one's neighbours may be."

"Right, Colonel, prudence is the mother of surety."

The colonel shrugged.

"I have no desire to pun, but since you speak of La Sûreté,[4] I cannot help
noticing that they are blundering terribly over these very affairs. Confound
those clumsy fools and their meddling! They will interfere with things
which are no concern of theirs--not in the slightest!"

[Footnote 4: La Sûreté-Scotland Yard detective service.]

"Are they still investigating?"

"No. The warning I myself administered to their famous Juve has taught
them a lesson. They are keeping quiet at present. Plague take the lot of
them!... It makes me furious when I think what happened the other
day--creating a scandal about things the public ought to be kept in
ignorance of--ought never to hear of--never!... Those confounded meddlers
complicate our task abominably."

Colonel Hofferman paused: de Loubersac kept a discreet silence.

The two men were walking down the little path which encircles the
principal lawn of the Elysée Gardens, now almost deserted.

The colonel turned to his companion.

"What was that you were saying just now?... You had something fresh to
tell me, and you had not.... That is the Norman way of putting it!... Not like
CHAPTER PAGE 181

you, de Loubersac!"

"It is merely the answer of one who hesitates to speak out," replied de
Loubersac, laughing, "... who hesitates to give a definite opinion, who,
nevertheless."...

"Who nevertheless what?... De Loubersac, just forget I am your

colonel--speak out, man!... Have you an idea of where the document was
lost?"

"That?... No."...

"Then what conclusion have you arrived at? Have you further information
about Brocq's death?"

"Hum!"...

"About Nichoune's death, perhaps?"

"Colonel! Have you noticed that for some time past I have not handed you
any report from the agent Vagualame?"

"The deuce.... What do you imagine that means?"

"I do not imagine anything, Colonel--I state facts!... Nichoune is dead,

murdered: there is not a shadow of a doubt about that.... Nichoune was the
mistress of Corporal Vinson.... This Vinson was on the point of playing the
traitor, if he had not already done so; he was also a friend of Captain Brocq,
and Brocq died just when the document disappeared--the document
confided to him by our service ... so much for facts."

The colonel was staring fixedly at de Loubersac.

"I do not see what you are driving at!" said he.
CHAPTER PAGE 182

"I am coming to it, Colonel.... Nichoune was found dead on Saturday,

November 19th, but on the evening of November 18th Nichoune received a
visit from our agent, Vagualame, whom I had sent to Châlons by your own
orders to occupy himself with the V. affair."

"Well?"

"Well, Colonel, I do not much like that, but what I like still less is, that, a
few days ago, I had occasion to see Vagualame ... and this agent far from
bringing me details of Nichoune's death, at first go off wanted to deny that
he had been at Châlons! I could swear he was going to declare he had not
been there, when a reply of my own--a blunder, I confess it--I did not take
time to think--informed him that I knew of his visit to Nichoune."

Colonel Hofferman weighed the gravity of de Loubersac's words; he strode

along, head bent, hands clasped behind his back, gazing with unseeing eyes
at the pebbles on the path. At last he spoke.

"Tell me how you knew for certain that Nichoune had received a visit from
Vagualame!"

"For some time past, Colonel, Vagualame has been under the eye of the
officer charged with the supervision of our spies, de Loreuil. Under the
guise of Aunt Palmyra he discovered that Nichoune had been murdered.
This was the morning after her interview with Vagualame. The discovery, I
may tell you, did not take de Loreuil altogether by surprise. He had
observed Vagualame's attitude towards the girl, and had considered it
queer--suspiciously so."

"This is serious, but it is not sufficiently definite," pronounced Colonel

Hofferman.... "Let us admit that Vagualame has played a double game, has
been at once traitor and spy. That being so, he may have murdered
Nichoune; but as to incriminating this agent whom we have known a long
time ... well ... you have merely a vague indication to go upon ... the kind of
reticence, or what you thought was reticence, he wished to maintain
regarding his journey to Châlons."
CHAPTER PAGE 183

"Yes," admitted de Loubersac, "if that were all I had to go upon, it would
amount to little."

"You know something else?"

"I know that I arranged to meet this agent yesterday in the Garden, as our
custom is, that I waited there, that he never turned up."

Colonel Hofferman took de Loubersac's arm as they walked slowly back to

the reception-rooms.

"What you have just told me is exceedingly serious: we must enquire into
this at once--without loss of time. If Vagualame has really fled, the
probability is that he is Nichoune's murderer.... In that case, there is nothing
to prevent our suspecting him of no end of things which I need not
particularise."...

The colonel pointed to an individual standing by a buffet near the entrance

to the great reception-room.

"Let us go the other way," said he. "There is Monsieur Havard! I do not at
all want to meet him!... If we have to arrest Vagualame, it would be
unnecessary to take Police Headquarters into our confidence."

"Undoubtedly, Colonel."

"Then let us keep clear of Monsieur Havard! Devote your whole attention
to clearing up the questions raised by your talk. Find Vagualame for me in
three days. If you have not run him to earth, then set our special enquiry
men on his track.... I shall see you to-morrow at the Ministry--six sharp."

*****

Whilst Colonel Hofferman and Lieutenant de Loubersac were having their

talk, Jérôme Fandor, who was also at the Elysée ball, in his own proper
person, was busying himself with the affairs which had led him to consider
CHAPTER PAGE 184

that the murder of Captain Brocq was a crime which must be imputed to
one of those foreign spies with which France was now swarming. At
Verdun, along the entire frontier, there were nests of these noxious vermin.

Fandor was, of course, still stationed at Verdun. He had arrived early at the
ball, hoping to pick up information from some friend as to how the Second
Bureau was taking the disappearance of Corporal Vinson. Did the Second
Bureau suspect anything?... What?... Had Nichoune's murder been
explained?

Fandor stationed himself near the entrance to the first reception-room,

watching all who entered, seeking the welcome face of friend or
acquaintance.

Someone slapped him on the shoulder.

"Hullo, Fandor! Are you reporting the official fêtes nowadays?"

"You, Bonnet? What a jolly surprise! I have heard nothing of you for ages.
How goes it?"

"My dear fellow, good luck has come my way at last!... I am police
magistrate at Châlons! There's news for you!"

"By Jove, Bonnet! That is good hearing! You arrive here in the very nick of
time!"

"Old Bonnet at Châlons and police magistrate!" thought Fandor. "What a

bit of luck for me!"

"I want to ask the police magistrate of Châlons most interesting things,"
said Fandor, smiling at his friend.

"Information for a report?" queried Bonnet.

"Just so."
CHAPTER PAGE 185

Fandor drew his "old Bonnet" away from the crowd of eyes and ears
around them. They came on an empty little smoking-room. The very place!

"Now tell me, my dear Bonnet, have you not been engaged on a recent
case--the death of a little singer, called."...

"Nichoune?... That is so. My first case at Châlons."

"Ah!... Now, just tell me!"

The examining magistrate shook his head.

"I cannot tell you much, for the good reason that this affair is as mysterious
as can be, and is giving me no end of trouble.... You knew Nichoune,
Fandor?"

"Yes--and no.... I would give a good deal, though, to know who her
murderer is!"

"I also," said Bonnet, smiling. "Would I not like to put my hand on the
collar of that individual!... Naturally, I want to carry through the enquiry
with flying colours!"

"Have you no idea as to who the murderer might be?"

Police Magistrate Bonnet rose.

"That is as may be!... It seems that on the eve of her death, this Nichoune
received a visit from an old man--a beggar--whom I am unable to
identify--who has vanished into thin air.... Would you like me to keep you
informed? Rue Richer is still your address?"

"Yes. It would be awfully kind of you to write when you have any fresh
facts to disclose about this case. I cannot explain to you all the importance I
attach to that, but it is enormous!"
CHAPTER PAGE 186

"It is understood, then! Count on me. I shall tell you all I can without
breaking professional secrecy.... Shall we take a turn through the rooms,
old boy?"

"If you like, my dear Bonnet."

The two men strolled through the thinning rooms, talking of what all the
world might hear.

"Dear boy, I must leave you," said Fandor suddenly.... "An interview!... Till
our next meeting!"

Fandor went up to a man standing in a doorway, gazing disdainfully at the

couples revolving in the centre of the room.

"Will you grant me a word or two, Monsieur Havard?" asked Fandor

respectfully.

The chief of police brightened.

"Four, if you like, my good Fandor, I am bored to death. I would rather

submit to your indiscreet questioning than stick here in a brown
study--black, I might say--with only my own thoughts for company."

"Good heavens, Chief! What is troubling you to such an extent?"

Monsieur Havard laughed.

"Oh, I will tell you the reason of this melancholy mood!... You are on
pretty intimate terms with Juve, are you not?"

"You have heard from him, Chief?"

"No, it is precisely."...

"You are anxious, then?"

CHAPTER PAGE 187

"No, no! Be easy!" smiled Monsieur Havard.

He caught Fandor by the lapel of his coat.

"Look here, my dear fellow! It is precisely because you and Juve are on
such intimate terms--this friendship between you is a fine thing--that I
should like you to use your influence with Juve."

"With Juve?"

"Yes. With Juve. You know how highly I esteem him? He is our best
detective. Very well he is making a thorough mess of his career: he
prevents his own promotion, because he is so obstinately set on searching
for his elusive, fugitive, never-to-be-caught Fantômas!"

"I do not understand you, Chief."

"You soon will. Do you know where Juve is at this moment?"

"No."

"I am as ignorant of his whereabouts as you are!... It is beyond bearing!...

Juve goes his own way beyond what is allowable. He declared to me, the
other day, that he was certain the death of Captain Brocq must be credited
to--whose account do you think?... Why to Fantômas! And clac! Since then
I have not heard a word from him! Juve is pursuing Fantômas! Now,
Fandor, how can I tolerate this?"

Fandor considered Juve had a perfect right to take his own initiative in this
particular matter--he had earned the right if ever a man had. He answered
his aggrieved chief with a question.

"But suppose Juve is right?"

"Right?... But he deceives himself.... I have proof of it!"

CHAPTER PAGE 188

"You have proof of it?... But who then, according to you, Chief, has killed
Brocq?"

"My dear fellow," said Monsieur Havard, in a positive tone, "for a logical
mind that reasons coolly, for one who does not bewilder himself in a
network of Fantômas hypotheses, he who killed Brocq is assuredly he who
has killed Nichoune! Brocq, I imagine, was killed by someone lying in wait
on the top of the Arc de Triomphe. An accomplice, during this time, or
some hours before--it matters little--had stolen the document the Ministry
are looking for.... Brocq knew Corporal Vinson ... you are aware of that,
Fandor?"

"Yes, yes! Please continue!"

"Good. Vinson had the murdered Nichoune as his mistress.... Do you not
think the link between these two names is evident?... Brocq and Nichoune
have died by the same hand."...

"But all this does not exclude Fantômas as the guilty person!"

"You go too fast, Fandor. I know who killed Nichoune!"

"Oh! I say!"

"But I do. Deuce take it, you do not suppose I go by what these officers of
the Second Bureau are doing in the way of a search, do you?... They fancy
they are detectives!"

"Oh, that is going too far, surely!" expostulated Fandor.

"No," asserted Monsieur Havard. "Who did the deeds?... I know. The
investigations of my own agents, the information obtained through the
Public Prosecutor and the magistrates, point to one person--Vagualame--an
old sham beggar, who has relations of sorts with the Second Bureau."
CHAPTER PAGE 189

Fandor could scarcely keep his countenance: he nearly burst into derisive
laughter. Vagualame guilty! Monsieur Havard evidently had not all the
facts. Could he possibly realise that Vagualame was one of Colonel
Hofferman's most trusted men?

Jealous of the Second Bureau and all its works, Monsieur Havard meant to
carry off the honours this time: he was going to arrest Vagualame as the
murderer of both Captain Brocq and Nichoune! And then what a jolly
blunder Police Headquarters would make! What a fine joke! Fandor really
must help it on! He said to himself:

"Only let the police paralyse the action of the Second Bureau agent, old
Vagualame, and I, the false Corporal Vinson, will be all the more free to
act."

"You have serious circumstantial evidence against this person?" Fandor

asked with a grave face.

"Very serious. I know for certain that he saw Nichoune the evening before
her death: he was even the last person known to have spoken to the singer. I
know that he then left Châlons, and has not returned there!... I know that he
was on good terms with very shady people, some of whom are suspected of
spying; and all that."...

Fandor interrupted:

"If I were in your place, Chief, and knew what you seem to know, I would
not hesitate a moment.... I should arrest Vagualame!"

Monsieur Havard's glance was ironical.

"Who told you that I had not so decided?... At this moment my best trackers
are out on Vagualame's trail.... If I run him to earth, he will not be at large
long, I can promise you! It would end a bothersome affair, and would open
the eyes of Colonel Hofferman who must be a hundred leagues from
imagining that Vagualame is the murderer of Captain Brocq and
CHAPTER PAGE 190

Nichoune."

On this Fandor and Monsieur Havard parted. Dancing went gaily on in the
warm, perfumed atmosphere of the ball-rooms; but Fandor and Monsieur
Havard, Colonel Hofferman and Lieutenant de Loubersac had had their
serious interviews and had gone their respective ways.

XVII

IN THE STRONGHOLD OF THE ENEMY

The curtain with its pictured red cock was down, lights were up in the
modern Cinema Concert Hall, rue des Poissonniers. Most of the spectators
were on the move. An old white-bearded man of poverty-stricken
appearance rose from his seat beside a pretty, red-haired girl, elegantly
dressed. He murmured:

"I am going out for a smoke."

The girl nodded. She stared at the spectators with indifferent eyes. They
were mostly women and girls. There was a mingled odour of hot coffee and
orange peel. Drinks and refreshments, for the good of the house, were now
the order of the evening.

The odd-looking old fellow, with a shabby accordion slung over his bent
shoulders, making his way to the exit, was detective Juve, Juve-Vagualame
in fact. He had kept the appointment made with Bobinette a week ago. This
cinema entertainment in an unfashionable quarter suited his purpose
exactly. In such an audience his appearance would attract but little
attention, and the long intervals of darkness were all in his favour.
Bobinette must not have her suspicions aroused.

Juve-Vagualame marched up and down outside the hall, rubbing his hands
with satisfaction. Things were going well. Bobinette had been with him less
than an hour, but she had given him an almost complete account of her
doings during the past week. She announced that her trip to the frontier had
CHAPTER PAGE 191

been crowned with success: that the plan arranged with Corporal Vinson
had proved astonishingly successful. She could not praise this wonderful
Vinson enough. How intelligent he was? Say but half a word and he
understood everything. As cynical as you please, he would stick at nothing,
declaring himself ready for anything, regardless of consequences!

From this, Juve-Vagualame gathered that Corporal Vinson was a daring

traitor, was the most out-and-out scoundrel imaginable.

Bobinette also told her supposed chief that the moment for the great stroke
was at hand. She whispered low: "To-morrow Vinson will be in Paris!"

Juve had already learned that Vinson was stationed at Verdun, was granted
frequent leave, and that on the morning of December 1st he would be in
Paris. This was the evening of November 30th! Bobinette had not said
exactly what he was coming to do, and Juve feared to ask questions that
might arouse the red-haired girl's suspicions.

A shrill-sounding bell warned spectators that the interval was over.

Juve-Vagualame returned to his seat. He was saying to himself:

"I must know exactly what Vinson is coming to Paris for."

After several attempts, he drew an important statement from Bobinette. He

played the part of sceptic. The more enthusiastically convinced Bobinette
was that the "great affair" would be successful, the more sceptical he grew.

She committed herself to a statement of extreme importance.

"Don't I tell you, old unbeliever that you are, that Corporal Vinson is to
bring the plan of the piece in question?"

"The plan!" objected Juve-Vagualame. "That is good, as far as it goes; but

that is not sufficient!"
CHAPTER PAGE 192

Bobinette shrugged her plump shoulders. She was exasperated. The noise
of the orchestra covered the sound of her imprudently loud answers.

"Since I tell you I have in my hands the piece of the gun which is to go to
the Havre agent! I expect you have forgotten the details concerning this
object? The manufacture of it is so complicated that, without the design for
its construction, the piece would be much like any other.... We have the
piece--I tell you it is in our hands.... To-morrow we shall possess the design
of it, thanks to Vinson--can we possibly expect anything more complete
than that?"

There was a pause. Then Bobinette announced:

"If, after that, you do not pay me what you owe me, you can be sure I shall
not serve you ever again!"

Juve-Vagualame promised immediate payment.

"But," said he to himself, "her remuneration will not take the form she
expects!"

To mislead the curious, the serious talk of this incongruous pair was
punctuated by loud-voiced remarks having no connection with the real
matter in hand.

Juve's one idea now was to see this piece of a gun for himself. When
Bobinette, at last, grasped this, she stared at him with bewildered eyes.

"But what are you thinking of, Vagualame? I do not carry the thing about
with me."

"I think, on the contrary, that you keep it well hidden in your own room."

"Assuredly," confirmed Bobinette.

"I mean to see it. I expect you to agree to that," declared Juve-Vagualame.
CHAPTER PAGE 193

"You intend to come to?"... Bobinette looked terrified.

"Exactly."

"But when? Do you recollect, Vagualame, that I shall have to hand it over
early to-morrow morning?"

"There is time for me to see it between then and now! See it, I must!
Examine it, hold it in my hands, I will! I have my most excellent reasons
for this!"

Juve meant to seize the piece of a gun and arrest the guilty girl.

Bobinette dared not openly kick against her chief's iron determination; but
she made another attempt to turn him from his purpose.

"You know quite well that I am living in the Baron de Naarboveck's house.
The least noise, an alarm raised, and I would not answer for the
consequences: we should almost certainly be caught!"

"We have nothing to fear. An hour from now I wish to be in your room!"

"But--how shall you get into it?" asked Bobinette, who was giving way
before this persistent attack.

"You will return alone. You will go up to your room. I know whereabouts it
is: you will leave the window half open. I will enter your room by the
window."

Bobinette saw this was possible, though risky. A large gutter pipe ran up
the whole height of the house; it was fastened to the wall by projecting
clamp-hooks of solid iron. For an agile man this was simply a staircase.
Bobinette was aware of this. In the course of her adventurous life, she had
been initiated into all sorts of tricks and stratagems; she was practiced in
every form of gymnastic exercise. Vagualame could and would reach her
room by the gutter-pipe ladder, it was not too difficult; but it was a risky
CHAPTER PAGE 194

undertaking, for, and particularly from the Esplanade des Invalides, a

climber might be seen, an alarm raised, and the police would intervene.

*****

Juve-Vagualame and Bobinette left the "movies" hall at half-past ten. In a

taxi they discussed how best to effect an entrance into the de Naarboveck
mansion. Juve-Vagualame stuck to his original idea.

The taxi drew up at the bridge. Juve-Vagualame paid the driver. Bobinette
hurried away, slipped into the house, and went straight up to her room. She
busied herself with the preparations agreed on, whereby Vagualame could
the more easily effect an entrance in his turn.

Safe in her room, Bobinette experienced a strange, a penetrating emotion.

She felt as though something around her in which she had moved safely,
was cracking; with a sudden and terrible lucidity she saw herself marching
forward, powerless to draw back, marching helplessly towards an abyss--an
abyss which was about to engulf her! She trembled, trembled violently. She
was encompassed by vague and agonizing terrors.

*****

Out in the night Juve, wandering restlessly, awaited his hour! This time!
Ah, this time! He murmured:

"I shall be in the stronghold of the enemy at last!"

XVIII

IN THE NAME OF THE LAW!

The Baron de Naarboveck and his daughter, Wilhelmine, were comfortably

seated before a wood fire in the library. So numerous were their social
engagements they rarely had time for a quiet talk together. Wilhelmine was
in good spirits. De Naarboveck listened with an indulgent smile to her
CHAPTER PAGE 195

vivacious account of the little happenings and doings of her day. Presently
a more serious subject came up for discussion. The word "marriage" was
mentioned. Wilhelmine blushed and lowered her eyes, while the baron
sounded her teasingly on her feelings for de Loubersac.

"My dear child," said the baron; "this young officer has a fine future before
him; he is charming; is sufficiently well connected; adequately endowed
with this world's goods; bears a known name; you would find him a
suitable match."

Wilhelmine kept silence. An anxious, preoccupied look replaced her bright

expression: her animation had died down. At last she murmured:

"Dear father, I have nothing to hide from you, and I willingly confess that I
love Henri with my whole heart. I know he loves me also; but I ask myself
whether he will not raise objections when he learns my life's secret!"

"My dear child, there is nothing in this secret which impugns your honor:
you are not the responsible party. If, up to the present, I have thought it
well to introduce you to my friends as my dau."...

De Naarboveck stopped short; the library door had opened. A footman

appeared and announced:

"A woman has just arrived with her son, and wishes to see Mademoiselle or
Monsieur. She says it is the new groom she has brought."

The baron looked puzzled. Wilhelmine rose.

"I forgot to tell you I was expecting the stable boy this evening. He replaces
Charles."

She turned to the impassive footman.

"Please ask Mademoiselle Berthe to attend to these persons. They come

late--much too late!"
CHAPTER PAGE 196

"Mademoiselle will please excuse me for troubling her," replied the

footman, "but Mademoiselle is still out, and."...

"In that case I will see them myself, though it is an unconscionable

hour--not at all a good beginning."...

*****

The woman and her son had been shown into the smoking-room. When
Wilhelmine entered, the pair bowed respectfully.

The would-be groom was a nice-looking lad, and gave the impression of
being superior to the common run of his class and calling. Agreeably
surprised, Wilhelmine asked to see his references: she wished to make sure
that they were in order; preliminaries, through the medium of an agent, had
been gone into some days before. The woman displayed them, announcing
in a loud, harsh voice:

"I am his mother!"

This mother was as unpleasant to behold as her son was the contrary,
thought Wilhelmine.

She was a stout, vulgar, clumsy creature, enveloped in a large shawl of

many colours which did not hide her obesity. The old termagant's face
seemed all paint and large gold-rimmed spectacles, and peering eyes. This
grotesque visage was shaded by a flowered veil.

"What a horrid old creature!" thought Wilhelmine, as she listened with

scarcely concealed distaste to the woman's voluble praises of her son's
qualities.... According to her, he was a marvel of marvels.

Monsieur de Naarboveck remained in the library pacing up and down,

smoking an expensive cigar. Wilhelmine did not return. Feeling sleepy, he
quitted the room and went down the long gallery at a leisurely pace. The
reception rooms opened on to it. The spacious entrance hall was visible
CHAPTER PAGE 197

from the wrought-iron balustrade bordering this gallery.

The baron stopped. He listened. Surely there were voices in animated

discussion in the vestibule! Yes. Men were arguing with the
porter--insisting.... The porter was coming up. The baron went down to
meet him. Two men, in derby hats and tightly buttoned overcoats,
confronted him. They carried neither stick nor umbrella, their hands were
gloveless. There was an air of suppressed haste about them. They saluted.
One of the two offered his card. The baron read:

Inspector Michel, Detective Force, Police Headquarters.

"Kindly follow me, gentlemen!"

De Naarboveck walked quietly up the grand staircase, his hand on its

superb wrought-iron balustrade.

The two men followed in silence.

The baron opened the smoking-room door, saw it was empty, entered,
signed to the policemen to follow, and closed the door.

"To what do I owe the honour of your visit, gentlemen?"

De Naarboveck's tone was icy.

Inspector Michel spoke.

"You must pardon us, Monsieur. Only a matter of the most serious
importance--exceptionally serious--could have brought us to your house at
so late an hour.... We hold a warrant, and, with your permission, we shall
proceed to make an arrest."

De Naarboveck looked fixedly at the policemen.

CHAPTER PAGE 198

"Gentlemen, that you should invade my house at such an hour, this matter
must indeed be of singular importance," he said stiffly. Then, in a voice
quivering with sarcasm, he enquired:

"Am I to be permitted to know what it is all about?"

"There is no harm in asking that, Monsieur," replied Inspector Michel, in a

matter-of-fact tone. "The individual we have come to arrest here is a
ruffian, wanted for a couple of murders: that of a Captain Brocq, and that of
a little music-hall singer called Nichoune."

That this statement had upset the baron was evident: he had grown white to
the lips. Inspector Michel realised that the idea of this double-dyed
murderer having taken refuge in his house must have given the rich
diplomat a horrid surprise. He continued his statement.

"The individual we have come to arrest is known under the name of

Vagualame!"

"Vagualame!" stammered de Naarboveck. He staggered slightly and caught

at the mantelpiece for support.

"How upset the baron is!" thought Inspector Michel. "Hardly to be

wondered at!" He hurried on with his statement.

"We were on the watch on the Esplanade des Invalides, about half an hour
ago--nothing to do with this affair--when we saw Vagualame approaching
this house."

"You saw Vagualame!" exclaimed the baron, with the amazed, incredulous
look of a man who finds himself suddenly faced by a set of lunatics.
"But--it's--it is ..." he gasped.

"It is so, Monsieur," asserted Inspector Michel. "This old ruffian, after
lingering about a few minutes to assure himself that he was not being
followed--we managed to conceal ourselves sufficiently behind the
CHAPTER PAGE 199

trees--Vagualame effected a most suspicious entry into your house,

Monsieur. He climbed the wall with the help of a gutter-pipe, and entered
the house through a half-opened window on the third floor! You permit,
Monsieur, that we take action at once!"

Without waiting for the baron's authorisation, Inspector Michel made a sign
to his colleagues. They removed their overcoats, placed them on a chair,
drew out their revolvers, and left the room.

The detectives were on the first steps of the flight of stairs leading to the
third story, when they heard voices just above them. The piercing notes of
the new groom's mother mingled with the refined accents of Wilhelmine de
Naarboveck, who, in the absence of her companion, was about to show the
new groom the room allotted to him. In such matters Wilhelmine was more
punctilious than most.

*****

"Did you hear, Vagualame?"

Bobinette paled. Could her overstrung nerves be playing her tricks? No....
There certainly were voices, voices on the floor below, strange voices!...
Whose?... Why?

Vagualame was seated at the foot of the bed, much at his ease. His
accordion lay on the floor. He met Bobinette's urgency with a shrug.

"Bah!"

With a despairing gesture, the terrified girl moved close to the old man.

"Don't you understand?... They have seen you! They are after you!...
Master!" Bobinette bent forward, looked Vagualame in the eyes ... started
... drew back with a jerk.
CHAPTER PAGE 200

This was not the Vagualame she knew!... Not her master!... Who, then?...
Who but an enemy?... A police spy?... Horror!... She was trapped!... Lost!

Her heart was beating frightfully--beating to bursting point. Were her knees
going to give way?... They should not!... Play the poltroon?... Never!...
Rage boiled up in her; brain and will were afire.... She submit to the
humiliation of arrest, the long-drawn-out agonies of cross-examinations,
the tortures of imprisonment in Noumea?... Not Bobinette!... Never, never,
never!

Almost simultaneously with her backward jerk from the stranger eyes of
this Vagualame, Bobinette darted to a chiffonier, slipped her hand into a
drawer among ribbons and laces, seized a revolver, and snatched it out....

Agile as a panther, Vagualame leaped at the girl, caught her wrist in a grip
like a vice. The pain of it was intense--Bobinette dropped her weapon.

"No more of this nonsense!" commanded Vagualame in a hard voice.

"Keep cool, I tell you!... Go on to the landing. Look over. See what is
happening. You are not to be afraid."

Struck speechless, Bobinette stared at the old man, who commanded her as
a master, and might stand by her as an accomplice--but--those terrifying
eyes were not the eyes of her own Vagualame--no! How to act?

She was left no choice. The old man was pushing her relentlessly towards
the door. He must be obeyed.

Listening, on the alert, Juve-Vagualame remained in the room, ready to

conceal himself behind the curtains. Who were these mounting the stairs?
Some of the household? Suppose Bobinette's agitation was so marked that
it aroused their suspicions, and his presence was revealed?... Should the
position become untenable, he would leave by the window, close to which
he was standing, make his way over the roofs to a neighbouring
house--but--confound it!... neither the gun piece would be in his hands, nor
CHAPTER PAGE 201

would he have learned where Bobinette had her rendezvous with Corporal
Vinson next morning!...

Bobinette was swaying in the doorway, as though the landing were red-hot
ploughshares to be walked on! The ordeal was beyond her!

*****

Four persons set foot on the landing. (A peremptory order from de

Naarboveck had caused Wilhelmine to descend.)

Inspector Michel and his colleague stared at the individuals in whose

company they found themselves--the young groom and his amazing
mother!

With a caricatural gesture of disdain, and an off-handed air, this corpulent

personage demanded stridently:

"Who are these gentlemen?"

Inspector Michel looked the outrageous creature up and down.

"Who are you, Madame?... What are you doing here?"

The inspector's tone was severity itself.

Juve, behind his window-curtains, breathed a sigh of relief.

"Ah, Michel has it in hand! That's all right!"

The groom's mother was taken aback--she hesitated; thereupon, Inspector

Michel stated his name and rank! On that, the large body of this
irrepressible personage made straight for him, caught him familiarly by the
neck, and whispered in his ear.
CHAPTER PAGE 202

The effect of the whispered words was to put Inspector Michel out of
countenance: he looked abashed. He was annoyed: his tone was one of
protest.

"I recognise you now, certainly--Monsieur!... But since when have you
taken it upon yourself to--to start operations of the kind we have in
hand--we, the representatives of Police Headquarters?"

The woman's retort was haughty.

"I belong to the information department of the Second Bureau."

"The Second Bureau does not make arrests--not that I am aware

of--Captain!"

The obstreperous mother of the pretended groom was--Captain Loreuil!

Pointing to his young companion, Captain Loreuil announced:

"This gentleman belongs to the secret service department of the Home

Office!... But what really matters, Inspector, is that we are losing time! Let
us effect a capture--the capture is the thing!"

The distracted Bobinette, still swaying in the doorway, failed to grasp the
full meaning of what these intruders were saying. Inspector Michel
marched up to the trembling girl.

"Mademoiselle! Are you alone in your room?"

Bobinette nodded. She was incapable of speech. The inspector ignored the
nod, brushed past her, stepped into the room and glanced rapidly round.

Bobinette, wild-eyed with fear, watched the proceedings. She saw the stout
woman moving the chairs, looking under the bed, shaking the hangings.
The fussy, obnoxious creature tore apart the window-curtains.... Vagualame
was exposed to view!... He had not escaped, then!
CHAPTER PAGE 203

They dragged the old fellow from his hiding-place: they promptly
handcuffed him.

"Vagualame! In the name of the law I arrest you!" declared Inspector

Michel.

Captain Loreuil shouted in his natural voice, which, issuing from this
apparent woman, had a ludicrous effect:

"Ha! at last we have got him!"

Juve-Vagualame did not budge. With inward joy, he awaited the arrest of
Bobinette.

"Things go well," he thought: "if not so well as old Michel believes.

Comrade Juve in the bracelets, and Vagualame free! But he holds Bobinette
in his hand--the old ruffian's accomplice, unmasked!"

What was this? Could Juve believe his ears?... Michel apologising to this
guilty creature! Felicitating her on her escape from Vagualame's clutches!
What the deuce?...

"Ah, Mademoiselle! You never suspected who was so near you, now did
you?" Inspector Michel was saying to Bobinette, whose self-confidence
was beginning to return.

"You have certainly had a narrow escape," he went on with a

congratulatory smile. "This old ruffian meant to murder you, I am
convinced."

Pointing triumphantly to Juve-Vagualame, he added:

"But Vagualame cannot harm you now! The law has got him! The law has
saved you, Mademoiselle!"
CHAPTER PAGE 204

Inspector Michel made a sign. His colleague and the Home Office detective
dragged Juve from the room. Juve offered no resistance.

"That Michel is an idiot--the completest of idiots," he thought.

"Come along, now! We are off to the Dépôt!" commanded Michel, shaking
Juve-Vagualame by the shoulder.

Juve was about to tear off his false beard, make himself known, and get
Bobinette arrested. He thought better of it. He was pretty sure the girl
doubted his genuineness. This arrest under her eyes would persuade her
that the Vagualame they were taking to prison was the real Vagualame....
Better that she should cherish this delusion for the present. Once out of the
de Naarboveck house, he could explain matters to his colleagues.

Thinking thus, Juve-Vagualame, encircled by watchful policemen,

descended the stairs. On the first floor he caught a glimpse of the baron and
his daughter in the ante-room. De Naarboveck's bearing was dignified:
Wilhelmine seemed terribly frightened. There was a scared, hunted look on
her pallid face.

Behind Juve-Vagualame in his handcuffs followed the pseudo-mother.

Judging it unwise to make himself known to the master and mistress of the
house, Captain Loreuil played his part vigorously to the last. Close on
Juve's heels he came, shouting:

"This is a nice kind of shop, this is!... You shall not remain here, Sosthène,
my child! Come, then, with your mother! She will find you a very different
situation to this! My poor Sosthène!"...

Majestically, with a wave of her arm signifying disdainful rejection, the

pseudo-mother drew her shawl of many colours about her corpulent person
and sailed out of the de Naarboveck mansion.

*****
CHAPTER PAGE 205

Meanwhile, up on the third floor, a puzzled, confused, battered Bobinette

was recovering from the shocks and terrors of the evening. She lay back in
an arm-chair trying to piece things together.

Two things were clear: Vagualame was arrested; she was free, and with the
famous gun piece still in her possession.... To-morrow, she would obey
orders received: she would take the piece to Havre, accompanied by
Corporal Vinson, who would bring the plan of the apparatus.

Bobinette had bent her head to the storm: she now raised it proudly.

XIX

THE MYSTERIOUS ABBÉ

Fandor half opened his eyes. Was he dreaming? This was not the barrack
dormitory, with its gaunt white-washed walls and morning clamour.... Of
course! He was in a bedroom of a cheap hotel in Paris. Cretonne curtains
shaded the window. A ray of light was reflected in a hanging mirror of
scant dimensions, decidedly the worse for wear. Below it stood a
washstand. On its cracked and dirty marble top could be seen a chipped and
ill-matched basin and soapdish. A lopsided table occupied the middle of the
room. On a chair by his bed lay Fandor-Vinson's uniform. His valise
reposed on a rickety chest of drawers. Fandor was loath to rouse himself.
His bed was warm, while about the room icy draughts from ill-fitting door
and window were circulating freely.

He would have to get up presently, dress, and keep his appointment. His
appointment! Ah! Wide awake now, our journalist considered the situation.

A couple of days ago the adjutant had announced:

"Corporal Vinson, you have eight days' leave: you can quit barracks at
noon to-morrow."

Fandor had been given leave several times already: he merely replied:
CHAPTER PAGE 206

"Thanks, Lieutenant."

He then looked out for a post card from the spies, appointing a rendezvous.
A letter was handed to him by the post sergeant.

The letter commenced:

"My dearest darling."...

"Ah!" thought Fandor. "Now I am indeed a soldier. I receive a love letter!"

His unknown correspondent wrote:

"It is so long since I saw you, but as you have eight days' leave I can make
up for lost time! Would you not like to arrange a meeting for your first
morning in Paris? You will go as usual, will you not, to the Army and Navy
Hotel, boulevard Barbès? You will find me at half-past eleven to the
minute, in the rue de Rivoli, at the corner of the rue Castiglione. We might
breakfast together. To our early meeting, then! I send you all my kisses."

The signature was illegible.

Fandor understood the hidden meaning. He was to hand over the design as
he had promised; but he had decided to put them off with a concocted
design of his own! He must hasten now to the appointed meeting place.

Fandor rose at once. Whilst dressing he decided:

"I shall go in mufti--be Jérôme Fandor, undisguised. Better be on the safe

side--this may be an anti-spy trap. Of course I shall miss my rendezvous;
but they will not be put off so easily. They will write at once, making a new
appointment. Then I shall go as Corporal Vinson, if I think it the wisest
thing to do."

Fandor ran down the rickety stairs. He learned from Octave, the hotel
porter, that his room had been paid for three days in advance. Saying he
CHAPTER PAGE 207

would not be back until the evening, probably, Fandor stepped on to the
boulevard Barbès, and hailed a cab.

"Take me to the foot of the Vendôme column," he ordered.

*****

Arrived at the rendezvous, Fandor sauntered along, awaiting developments.

Presently he noticed in the distance a figure he seemed to know. It was
moving towards him.

"My word! I was not mistaken," thought Fandor, watching the young
woman. She also was sauntering under the arcades of the rue de Rivoli,
glancing at the fascinating display of feminine apparel in the shop
windows. Fandor drew aside, watching her every movement, and swearing
softly.

The girl came nearer. Fandor's curiosity made him make himself known,
that he might see what she would do. He showed himself, and saluted with
an impressive wave of his hat, exclaiming:

"Why, it is Mademoiselle Berthe!"

The girl stopped.

"Why--yes--it is Monsieur Fandor!... How are you?"

"Flourishing, thanks! I need not ask how you are, Mademoiselle!... You
bloom!"

Bobinette smiled.

"How is it I find you here at this time of day?"

"Why, Mademoiselle, just in the same way as you happen to be here--the

fancy took me to pass this way!... I often do."
CHAPTER PAGE 208

"Oh!" cried Bobinette in an apologetic tone. "Now, I am going to ask you

how it is you have never responded to Monsieur de Naarboveck's invitation
to take a cup of tea with us now and then! We were speaking of you only
the other day. Monsieur de Naarboveck said he never saw your signature in
La Capitale now--that most probably you were travelling."

"I have, in fact, just returned to Paris. Are all well at Monsieur de
Naarboveck's? Has Mademoiselle Wilhelmine recovered from the sad
shock of Captain Brocq's death?... His end was so sudden!"

"Oh, yes, Monsieur."

Fandor would have liked to find out the exact nature of Bobinette's
intimacy with the ill-fated officer, also to what extent she was in love with
Henri de Loubersac; but, as she showed by her manner that she did not
relish this talk, either because of the turn it had taken, or because it was
held in a public place, Fandor had to take his leave. Bobinette went off.
Fandor noted the time as he continued his saunter. It was a quarter to
twelve. Of the few passers-by there was not one who merited a second
glance or thought!... Impatiently he waited, five, ten minutes: at one o'clock
he betook himself to his hotel. There he found an express message,
unsigned. It ran:

"My darling, my dear love, forgive me for not meeting you this morning in
the rue de Rivoli, as arranged. It was impossible. Return to the same place
at two o'clock, I will be punctual, I promise you.... Of course you will wear
your uniform. I want to see how handsome you look in it!"

"I do not like this," thought Fandor, rereading the message. "Why ask me to
come in uniform?... Do they know I came in mufti this morning?... I shall
go again; but I think it is high time I returned to civilian life!"

*****

It was two by the clock on the refuge, in the rue de Rivoli. Fandor-Vinson
emerged from the Metropolitan and crossed to the corner of the rue
CHAPTER PAGE 209

Castiglione. He took a few steps under the arcade, saying to himself:

"Punctual to the tick and in uniform! The meeting should come off all right
this time!"

A delicately gloved hand was placed on his shoulder, and a voice said:

"My dear Corporal! How are you?"

Fandor-Vinson turned sharply and faced--a priest!... He recognised the

abbé. It was he of the Verdun motor-car.

"Very well! And you, Monsieur l'Abbé?... Your friend? Is he with you?"

"He is not, my dear Corporal!"

"Is he at Verdun?"

The abbé's reply was a look of displeasure.

"I do not know where he is," he said sharply, after a pause.... "But that is
neither here nor there, Corporal," he went on in a more amiable tone. "We
are going to take a little journey together."

This news perturbed Fandor-Vinson: it was not to his liking.

The abbé took him by the arm.

"You will excuse my absence this morning? To keep the appointment was
impossible.... Ah! Hand me the promised document, will you?... That is
it?... Very good.... Thank you!... By the by, Corporal--there you see our
special train." The priest pointed to a superb motor-car drawn up alongside
the pavement. A superior-looking chauffeur was seated at the wheel.

"Shall we get in? We have a fairly long way to go, and it is important that
we arrive punctually."
CHAPTER PAGE 210

Fandor could do nothing but agree. They seated themselves. The abbé
shared a heavy travelling rug.

"We will wrap ourselves up well," said he. "It is far from warm, and there
is no need to catch cold--it is not part of our programme!... You can start
now, chauffeur! We are ready."

Once in motion, the abbé pointed to a voluminous package which

prevented Fandor from stretching his legs.

"We can change places from time to time, for you cannot be comfortable
with this package encumbering the floor of the car like this."

"Oh," replied Fandor-Vinson, "one takes things as they come!... But we

should be much more comfortable if we fastened this rather clumsy piece
of baggage to the front seat, beside the chauffeur, who can keep an eye on
it!"

"Corporal! You cannot be thinking of what you are saying!" The priest's
reply was delivered in a dry authoritative voice.

"I have put my foot in it," thought Fandor. "I should just like to know
how!" He was about to speak: the abbé cut in:

"I am very tired, Corporal, so excuse me if I doze a little! In an hour or so, I

shall be quite refreshed. There will be ample time for a talk after that."

Fandor could but agree.

The car was speeding up the Avenue des Champs-Elysées. They were
leaving Paris--for what destination?

"Does your chauffeur know the route, Monsieur l'Abbé?"

"I hope so--why?"

CHAPTER PAGE 211

"Because I could direct him. I could find my way about any of these
suburbs with my eyes shut."

"Very well. See that he keeps on the right road. We are going towards
Rouen." With that the abbé wrapped himself in his share of the ample rug
and closed his eyes.

Fandor sat still as a mouse, with all the food for thought he required.

"Why Rouen? Why were they taking him there?... What is this mysterious
package which must remain out of sight at the bottom of the car?"

Fandor tried to follow its outline with the toe of his boot. It was protected
by a thick wrapping of straw.

"Then who was this abbé?" His speech showed he was French. He wore his
cassock with the ease of long habit: he was young. His hand was the
delicate hand of a Churchman--not coarsened by manual labour. Fandor,
plunged in reflections, lost all sense of time.

The car sped on its way, devouring the miles fleetly. No sooner out of Paris
than Saint-Germain was cleared--Mantes left behind! As they were
approaching Bonniéres, Fandor, whose eyes had been fixed on the
interminable route, as though at some turn of the road he might catch sight
of their real destination, now felt that the abbé was watching the landscape
through half-closed eyes.

"You are awake, then, Monsieur l'Abbé?" observed Fandor-Vinson.

"I was wondering where we were."

"We are coming to Bonniéres."

"Good!" The abbé sat up, flung his rug aside.

CHAPTER PAGE 212

"Do as I do, Corporal. Do not fold up the rug. Throw it over our package.
Prying eyes will not suspect its presence."

With the most stupid air in the world, Fandor asked:

"Must it not be seen, then?"

"Of course not! And at Bonniéres we must be on guard: the police there are
merciless: they arrest everyone who exceeds the speed limit.... Nor do we
wish to arouse their curiosity about us personally. There is a number of
troops stationed here: the colonel is notorious for his strictness: he is
correctness personified."

Fandor-Vinson stared questionably at the abbé.

"But you do not seem to understand anything, Corporal Vinson!" he cried

in an irritated tone. "Whatever I say seems to send you into a state of
stupefaction!... I shall never do anything with you, you are hopeless!... Ah,
here is Bonniéres! Once outside the town, I will give you some useful
explanations."

A bare three minutes after leaving Bonniéres behind, the Abbè turned to
Fandor and asked in a low voice:

"What do you think is in that package, Corporal?"

"Good heavens! Monsieur l'Abbé."...

"Corporal, that contains a fortune for you and for me ... a piece of artillery
... the mouthpiece of 155-R ... rapid firer!... You see its importance?...
To-night we sleep in the outskirts of Rouen ... to-morrow, we leave early
for Havre.... As I am known there, Corporal, we shall have to separate....
You will go with the driver to the Nez d'Antifer.... There you will find a
fishing-boat in charge of a friendly sailor ... all you have to do is to hand
over this package to him.... He will make for the open sea, where he will
deliver it--into the right hands."...
CHAPTER PAGE 213

Involuntarily Fandor drew away from the priestly spy. The statements just
made to him were of so grave a nature; the adventure in which he found
himself involved was so dangerous, so nefarious, that Fandor thrilled with
terror and disgust. He kept silence: he was thinking. Suddenly he saw his
way clear.

"Between Havre and the Nez d'Antifer I must get rid of this gun piece.
However interesting my investigations are I cannot possibly deliver such a
thing to the enemy, to a foreign power! Death for preference!"...

His companion broke in.

"And now, Corporal, I fancy you fully understand how awkward it would
be for you, much more so than for me, if this package were opened,
because you are a soldier, and in uniform."

Fandor showed an unflinching front, but a wave of positive anguish rushed

over him.

"This cursed abbé has me in his net!" he thought. "Like it, or not, I must
follow him now. I am regularly let in!... As a civilian, as Fandor the
journalist, I might go to the first military dépôt I can come at, and state that
I had discovered a priest who was going to hand over to a foreign power an
important piece of artillery!... The pretended Vinson would have done the
trick and would then vanish.... But in uniform!... They would certainly
accuse me of suspicious traffic with spies.... They would confine me--cell
me.... I should have the work of the world to obtain a release under six
months!... Another point.... Why had they chosen him, Corporal Vinson as
they believed, for such a mission?... Assuredly the spies possessed a
thousand other agents, capable of carrying triumphantly through this
dangerous mission, this delivery of a stolen piece of ordnance to a sailor
spy in the pay of a foreign power inimical to France!"

It was horrible! Abominable! This spy traffic! Only to think of it soiled

one's soul! Fandor sickened at the realisation of what was involved--that
this betrayal of France was not a solitary instance--that there must be a
CHAPTER PAGE 214

hundred betrayals going on at that very moment! That France was being
bought and sold in a hundred ways for Judas money--France!

His thoughts turned shudderingly away from such hell depths of treachery.

He brought his mind to bear on other points.

"Why, after so much mystery, such precautions, does this Judas of an abbé
disclose the contents of that damnable package before its delivery? Why
this halt in the outskirts of Rouen when a quick run, a quick handing over
of the package is so essential?... With such a powerful machine, why this
stop in a journey of some 225 kilometres?"

Fandor felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

"Suppose this abbé is playing a trick on me?... If yesterday, to-day, ... no

matter when ... I have betrayed myself? If these people have discovered my
identity? If, knowing that I am not Vinson, but Fandor, they have made me
put on uniform, placed in the car with me a compromising portion of a gun,
and are going to hand me over to the military authorities, either at Rouen,
or elsewhere?"

The abbé, comfortably ensconced in the corner, was slumbering again.

Fandor cast stealthy glances at his companion, considering him carefully.

Now he came to examine him, surely this priest's face had a queer look?...
The eyebrows were too regular ... painted?... How delicate his skin?... Not
the slightest trace of a beard?... A shoe--the traditional silver-buckled shoe
of the priest--was visible below the cassock.... That was all right ... but,
how slender his ankle?...

Fandor pulled himself up. What would he imagine next? True, he was wise
to suspect everything, everybody--test them, try them--in this terrible
position he had got himself into, nevertheless, he must keep a clear head.
CHAPTER PAGE 215

The car was passing through a village. The abbé opened his eyes.

"Monsieur l'Abbé," declared Fandor, "I am frozen to death. Would you

object to our stopping a minute so that I might swallow a glass of rum?"

The abbé signalled the driver. The car stopped before a little inn. The
innkeeper appeared.

"Bring the driver a cognac!" ordered the priest. "Give Monsieur a glass of
rum. You may pour me out a glass of aniseed cordial."

"Aniseed cordial!" thought Fandor. "That is a liqueur for priests, youths,

and women!"

"In an hour," said the abbé, "we shall be at Rouen. We shall pass through
the town; a few kilometres further on, at Barentin, we shall halt for the
night.... I know a very good little hotel there!"

Fandor refrained from comment. What he thought was:

"A fig for Barentin!... If I see the least sign that this little fellow is going to
give me the slip, leave me for a minute--if it looks as though he were going
to warn the authorities--I know someone who will take to flight ... and
how!"...

XX

MAN OR WOMAN

Kilometres succeeded kilometres in endless procession. Ceaselessly the

landscapes unrolled themselves like views on a cinema film. Swiftly,
regularly, relentlessly, the car sped forward. Again the priest, with
half-closed eyes, snuggled into his cushions.

Fandor felt strangely drowsy. This was due, he thought, to the long journey
in the open air, and to a nervous fatigue induced by the tense emotions of
CHAPTER PAGE 216

the day.

"The nuisance is," thought he, "that no sooner shall I lay my head on the
pillow to-night than I shall be snoring like the Seven Sleepers."

The car continued to advance.

After a sharp descent, the car turned to the right: the road now wound along
the side of a hill, bordered by the Seine on one side, and on the other by
perpendicular cliffs. High in the grey distance, dominating the countryside,
rose the venerated sanctuary of Rouen--Nôtre Dame de Bon Secours.

"We have only six more kilometres to cover," remarked the abbé.

Soon they were moving at a slower pace through the outskirts of Rouen.

Jolted on the cobbles of the little street, thrown against each other every
time the car side-slipped on the two rails running along the middle of the
roadway, Fandor and the little abbé were knocked wide awake.

"We are not going to stop?" asked Fandor.

"Yes. We must recruit ourselves: besides, I have to call at a certain garage."

"Attention!" said Fandor to himself. "The doings of this little priest are
likely to have a peculiar interest for me! At the least sign of danger, my
Fandor, I give thee two minutes to cut and run!"

Our journalist knew Rouen well. He knew that to reach Barentin, the car,
passing out of the great square, surrounded by the new barracks, would
follow the quay, traverse the town from end to end, pass near the famous
transshipping bridge, and join the high road again.

"If we pull up at one of the garages along the quays, all will be well,"
thought Fandor.... "In case of an alarm, a run of a hundred yards or so
would bring me to one of the many electric tramways.... I should board a
CHAPTER PAGE 217

tram--devil take them, if they dared to chase and catch me!"

The car had reached the bridge which prolongs the rue Jeanne d'Arc across
the Seine. They were now in the heart of Rouen. The chauffeur turned:

"Can I stop, Monsieur? I need petrol and water."

The priest pointed to a garage.

"Stop there!"

The chauffeur began to supply the wants of his machine with the help of an
apprentice. The priest jumped out and entered the garage. Fandor followed
on his heels, saying:

"It does one good to stretch one's legs!"

The abbé seemed in no wise disturbed. He walked up to the owner of the

place.

"Tell me, my friend, have you, by chance, received a telegram addressed to

the Abbé Gendron?"

"That is so, Monsieur. It will be for you?"...

"Yes, for me. I asked that a message should be sent to me here, if

necessary."

Whilst the priest tore open his telegram, Fandor lit a cigarette.... By hook or
by crook, he must see the contents of this telegram which his travelling
companion was reading with frowning brows. But Fandor might squint in
the glass for the reflection of the message, pass behind the abbé to peep
over his shoulder while pretending to examine the posters decorating the
garage walls: he had his pains for his reward: it was impossible to decipher
the text.... He must await developments.
CHAPTER PAGE 218

When the car was ready to start he decided to speak.

"You have not received vexatious instructions, I hope, Monsieur l'Abbé?"

"Not at all!"

"There is always something disquieting about a telegram!"

"This one tells me nothing I did not know already--at least, suspected! The
only result is that instead of going to Havre we shall now go to Dieppe."

"Why this change of destination?" was Fandor's mental query. "And what
did this precious priest suspect?"

The abbé was giving the chauffeur instructions.

"You will leave Rouen by the new route.... You will draw up at an hotel
which you will find on the right, named, if my memory does not play me
false, The Flowery Crossways."

"A pretty name!" remarked Fandor.

"A stupid name," replied the abbé. "The house does not stand at any
cross-roads, and the place is as flowerless as it is possible to be!" There was
a pause. "That matters little, however, Corporal: the quarters are good--the
table sufficient. You shall judge for yourself now: here is the inn!"

Under the skillful guidance of the chauffeur, the car turned sharply, and
passed under a little arch which served as a courtyard entrance. The car
came to a stand-still in a great yard, crowded with unharnessed carts,
stablemen, and Normandy peasants in their Sunday best.

A stout man came forward. His head was as hairless as a billiard ball. This
was the hotel-keeper. To every question put by the little abbé he replied
with a broad grin which displayed his toothless gums. His voice was as odd
as his appearance, it was high-pitched and quavering.
CHAPTER PAGE 219

"You can give us dinner?"

"Why, certainly, Monsieur le Curé."

"You have a coach-house where the car can be put up?"

With a comprehensive sweep of his arm, mine host of The Flowery

Crossways indicated the courtyard. The carts of his regular clients were left
there in his charge: he could not see why the motor-car of these strangers
could not pass the night there also.

"And you can reserve three rooms for us?" was the little abbé's final
demand.

This time the face of mine host lost its jovial assurance.

"Three rooms? Ah, no, Monsieur le Curé--that is quite impossible!... But

we can manage all the same.... I have an attic for your chauffeur, and a fine
double-bedded room for you and Monsieur the corporal.... That will suit
you--I think?"

"Yes, quite well! Very well, indeed!" declared Fandor, delighted at this
opportunity of keeping his queer travelling companion under his eye.

The little abbé was far from satisfied.

"What! You have not two rooms for us?" he expostulated. "I have a horror
of sharing a room with anyone whatever! I am not accustomed to it; and I
cannot sleep under those conditions!"

"Monsieur le Curé, it's full up here! I have a wedding party on my hands!"

"Well, then is there no hotel near by, where I can."...

"No, Monsieur le Curé: I am the only hotel-keeper about here!"

CHAPTER PAGE 220

"Is it far to the parsonage?"

"But, my dear Abbé!" protested Fandor: "I beg of you to take the room! I
can sleep anywhere ... on two chairs in the dining-room!"

"Certainly not!" declared the little priest. He turned to the hotel-keeper:

"Tell me just how far the parsonage is from here?"

"At least eight kilometres."

"Oh, then, it is out of the question! What a disagreeable business this is!...
We shall pass a dreadful night!"

The abbé was greatly put out.

"No, no! I will leave the room to you!" again protested Fandor.

"Do not talk so childishly, Corporal! We have to be on the road again

to-morrow. What good purpose will it serve if we allow ourselves to be
over-fatigued and so fit for nothing?... After all, a bad night will not last
forever!... We must manage to put up with the inconvenience."

Fandor nodded acquiescence. Things were going as he wished.

"Dinner at once!" ordered the abbé.

An affable Normandy girl laid their table in a small room: a profusion of

black cocks with scarlet combs decorated the paper on its walls. The effect
was at once bewildering and weirdly funereal.

Meanwhile the abbé walked up and down in the courtyard; to judge by his
expression he was in no pleasant frame of mind.

When he came to table, Fandor noticed that he forgot to pronounce the

Benedicite. He was still more interested when the ecclesiastic attacked a
tasty chicken with great gusto.
CHAPTER PAGE 221

"This is certainly the 1st of December, therefore a fast day according to the
episcopal mandate, which I have read ... and behold my little priest is
devouring meat! The hotel-keeper offered us fish just now, and I quite
understood why, but it seems fasting is not obligatory for this priest--unless
this priest is not a priest!"

Whilst the abbé was enjoying his chicken in silence, with eyes fixed on his
plate, Fandor once again subjected him to a minute examination. He noted
his delicate features, his slim hands, his graceful attitudes: he was so
impressed by this and various little details, that when the abbé, after dessert
and a last glass of cider, rose and proposed that they should go up to their
room for the night, Fandor declared to himself:

"My head on a charger for it! I bet that little abbé is a woman, then more
mystery, and a probable husband or lover who may come on the scene
presently! Fandor, my boy, beware of this baggage! Not an eye must you
close this night!"

The priest had had the famous package taken upstairs and placed at the foot
of his bed.

Fandor and the abbé wished each other good night.

"As for me," declared Fandor, unlacing his boots, "I cannot keep my eyes
open!"

"I can say the same," replied his companion.

Fandor's next remark had malice in it.

"I pity you, Monsieur l'Abbé! No doubt you have long prayers to
recite--especially if you have not finished your breviary!"

"You are mistaken," answered the abbé, with a slight smile: "I am
dispensed from a certain number of religious exercises!"
CHAPTER PAGE 222

"A fig for you, my fine fellow!" said Fandor to himself. "The deuce is in if
I do not catch you out over one of your lies!"

The little abbé was seated on a chair attending to his nails.

Fandor walked to the door, explaining:

"I have a horror of sleeping in an hotel bedroom with an unlocked door!...

You will allow me to turn the key?"

"Turn it, then!"

Locking the door, Fandor drew the key and threw it on to the priest's lap.

"There, Monsieur l'Abbé, if you like to put it on your bedside table!"

Fandor's action had a purpose. Ten to one you settle the sex of a doubtful
individual by such a test. A man instinctively draws his knees together
when an object is thrown on them: a woman draws them apart, to make a
wider surface of the skirt for the reception of an article and thus prevent its
fall to the ground.

Fandor was not surprised to see the little priest instinctively act as would a
woman.... But, would not a priest, accustomed to wear a cassock, act as a
woman would? Fandor realised that, in this instance, the riddle of sex was
still unsolved.

Fandor-Vinson began to undress: the priest continued to polish his nails.

"You are not going to bed, Monsieur l'Abbé?"

"Yes, I am."

The ecclesiastic took off his shoes; then his collar. Then he lay down on the
bed.
CHAPTER PAGE 223

"You will sleep with all your clothes on?" asked Fandor-Vinson.

"Yes, when I have to sleep in a bed I am not accustomed to!... Should I

blow out the candle, Corporal?"

"Blow it out, Monsieur l'Abbé."

Fandor felt sure the little priest was a woman disguised. He dare not take
off his cassock because he was she!

Wishing his strange companion a good night's rest, Fandor snuggled under
the bedclothes. Determined to keep awake and alert, he tried to pass the
dark hours by mentally reciting Le Cid!

XXI

A CORDIAL UNDERSTANDING

"Let us make peace!"

Juve held out his hand--a firm, strong hand--the hand of a trusty man.

"Let us make peace frankly, sincerely, wholeheartedly!"

Lieutenant de Loubersac signed the pact, without a moment's hesitation: he

put his hand into the hand of Juve, and shook it warmly.

"Agreed, Monsieur: we are of one mind on that point!"

The two men stood silent, considering each other, despite the violence of
the west wind sweeping across the end of the stockade, bringing with it
enormous foam-tipped waves, rising from a rough, grey sea.

The detective and the officer were on the jetty of Dieppe harbour. This chill
December afternoon, the sea looked dark and threatening.
CHAPTER PAGE 224

Since their arrival at Dieppe, Juve and de Loubersac had mutually avoided
each other. Time and again they had come face to face, each more bored,
more cross-looking than the other. This mutual, sulky avoidance was over:
they had made it up.

*****

The evening before, following his arrest under the guise of Vagualame,
Juve had been conducted to the Dépôt by his colleagues. No sooner were
they seated in the taxi, under the charge of Inspector Michel and his
companion, than Juve made himself known to his gratified, unsuspecting
colleagues. It was a humiliating surprise for the two policemen: they felt
fooled.

Juve, realising that neither Michel nor his colleagues were at present likely
to lend him their generous aid in the carrying out of certain plans, decided
to keep silence: nor would he let them into the secret of his discoveries
regarding Bobinette's highly suspicious character and conduct: that she was
an accomplice, a tool of the real Vagualame was established beyond a
doubt.

The crestfallen Michel had to unhandcuff Juve and restore him to liberty;
but he extracted a promise from his amazing colleague that he would see
Monsieur Havard next morning, and give him an account of all that had
passed.

Accordingly, at seven o'clock next morning, Juve was received by

Monsieur Havard.

Juve had hoped for a few minutes' interview, then a rush to the East Station,
there to await the arrival of Corporal Vinson. The interview was a long one:
Juve was too late.

But he had not lost time at Headquarters. The Second Bureau had
telephoned, warning Police Headquarters that Corporal Vinson, arrived in
Paris, was going to Dieppe very shortly, where a foreign pleasure-boat
CHAPTER PAGE 225

would take possession of a piece of artillery, stolen, and probably being

taken care of by the corporal.

This information coincided with what Juve had learned from Bobinette, and
completed it. He must start for Dieppe instanter. If he had any luck he
would arrest the soldier, and Bobinette as well. She would convey the piece
to Vinson in the morning, and would accompany him to Dieppe. She was
daring enough to do it.

At the Saint Lazare station Juve had caught the train for Dieppe which
meets the one o'clock boat, bound for England. He had just settled himself
in a first-class compartment, of which he was the solitary occupant, when
he recognised an officer of the Second Bureau walking in the
corridor--Lieutenant Henri de Loubersac!

The train was barely in motion when de Loubersac seated himself opposite
Juve. The recognition had been mutual.

A few hours before, Henri de Loubersac had learned of the extraordinary

arrest of the false Vagualame. He then understood that it was with Juve he
had talked on the quay near the rue de Solférino. The officer of the Second
Bureau was profoundly mortified: he had been taken in by a civilian!

He declared:

"It is the sort of thing one does not do! It is unworthy of an honourable
man!"

In the Batignolles tunnel Juve and he began discussing this point: de

Loubersac angry, excited; Juve immovably calm.

The discussion lasted until their train ran into Dieppe station. They had
exhausted the subject, but had scarcely touched on the motives of their
journey to this seaport. The two men separated with a stiff salute.
CHAPTER PAGE 226

Obviously both were keeping a watch on the approaches to the quay: they
encountered each other repeatedly; it became ridiculous. Being intelligent
men devoted to their duty, they determined to act in concert for the better
fulfillment of this same duty--duty to their respective chiefs--duty to the
State--duty to France!

So they made it up!

After their cordial handshake, Juve, wishing to define the situation, asked:

"Now what are we after exactly--you and I? What is the common aim of the
Second Bureau and Police Headquarters?"

De Loubersac's reply was:

"A document has been stolen from us: we want to find it."

Juve said:

"Two crimes have been committed: we wish to seize the assassin."

"And," continued de Loubersac, with a smile, "as it is probable the

murderer of Captain Brocq and Nichoune is none other than the individual
who stole our document."...

"By uniting our efforts," finished Juve, "we have every chance of
discovering the one and the other."

There was a pause. Then Juve asked:

"Nevertheless, Lieutenant, since I find you here, I fancy there is some side
development--some incident?... In reality, have you not come to Dieppe to
intercept a certain corporal who is to deliver to a foreign power a piece of
artillery of the highest importance?"
CHAPTER PAGE 227

"You have hit it!" was de Loubersac's reply. "I see you know about this gun
affair!"

Juve nodded.

The two men were slowly returning towards the town by way of the outer
harbour quays. They approached a dock, in which was anchored a pretty
little yacht flying the Dutch flag. Juve stared hard at this elegant craft. De
Loubersac enquired if yachting was his favourite sport. Juve smiled.

"Far from it! Nevertheless, when that yacht weighs anchor, it would be my
delight to inspect her from stem to stern, accompanied by the Custom
House officials. It is my conviction that Corporal Vinson will soon turn up,
slip aboard with the stolen gun-piece, conceal it in some prepared
hiding-hole below: his otherwise uninteresting person will be hidden also."

"I am of the same mind," declared de Loubersac.

As the two men strolled they exchanged information.

De Loubersac told Juve that, according to the latest messages from the
Second Bureau, Vinson had left Paris with a priest, in a hired motor-car,
and had taken the road to Rouen, that in all probability they would reach
Dieppe before nightfall, and when they arrived!...

"It is precisely at that moment we shall arrest them. I have made all
arrangements with the local police," finished de Loubersac.

"Ah!" murmured Juve. "What a pity Captain Loreuil and Inspector Michel
came on the scenes last night and arrested me prematurely, thinking they
had got the real Vagualame, for now I can never make use of the ruffian's
disguise to pump the different members of the great spy organisation we
are on the track of!"

"But what prevents you now from masquerading as Vagualame?"

demanded de Loubersac.
CHAPTER PAGE 228

"Why, when no one knew I was a false Vagualame, I could make up in his
likeness: now they know the truth; not only is it known by the followers of
Vagualame by this time, but--I am certain of it--I was recognised by the
real Vagualame himself!"

"Did he see you then?"

"I would stake my life on it!" asserted Juve.

"Just when?... Where?... In the street?" de Loubersac was keenly interested.

"No--just when I was arrested."

"But, from what I have heard, there were very few of you!" cried de
Loubersac. "Then the real Vagualame must have been at the Baron de
Naarboveck's?"

"Hah!" was Juve's non-committal exclamation.

"Whom do you suspect?"

Juve kept silence.

Suddenly he concealed himself behind a deserted goods waggon. De

Loubersac did the same. Both fixed examining eyes on a couple coming in
their direction. They were not the expected pair of traitors.

"Who?" again asked de Loubersac.

Juve was impenetrable.

"I am inclined to think that the companion, Mademoiselle Berthe, otherwise

Bobinette, has played, and perhaps still plays, an incomprehensible part in
these affairs."

"You find it incomprehensible?" Juve burst into laughter. "I do not!"

CHAPTER PAGE 229

"Well then, were I in your place, I should not hesitate to arrest her!"

"And then?"

"Oh, explanations could follow."

Juve considered his companion a minute: then, taking his arm in friendly
fashion, continued their walk along the quay.

"I have a theory," said Juve; "that when dealing with such complex affairs
as these we are now engaged on, affairs in which the actors are but puppets,
acting on behalf of the prime mover, a master-mind, ungetatable, or almost
so, we should aim at first securing the prime mover. To secure the puppets
and leave the prime mover free is to obtain but a partial success: the victory
is then more apparent than real.... I might have arrested Bobinette as we
shall probably arrest Corporal Vinson before long; but would her arrest
furnish us with the master key to this problem? Have we not a better chance
of discovering the powerful head of this band if we allow his collaborators
to perform their manoeuvres in a fancied security?"

The prime mover of these mysteries? Juve was convinced that the prime
mover of these nefarious mysteries, the murderous master mind was, and
could be, none other than--Fantômas!

Juve paused abruptly.

A man was coming to meet them--an investigating agent attached to the

general commissariat department at Dieppe.

"They are asking for Monsieur Henri on the telephone," he announced.

De Loubersac rushed to the police station. Over the telephone, a War Office
colleague informed him that the fugitive corporal, accompanied by a priest,
had during the last hour arrived at a garage in Rouen.
CHAPTER PAGE 230

Meanwhile Juve had received a cypher telegram at the police station,

confirming the news, with the addition that, after replenishing the motor
with petrol, they had set off again at once--they had received a telegram.

Juve and de Loubersac returned to the quay.

"Our beauties will not be so long now," said he.

With twilight the tempest had died down, night was falling fast. The waters
in the docks reflected the light from the quay lamps on their shining,
heaving, surface.

Now, for some time, Henri de Loubersac had been longing to ask Juve a
question, longing yet fearing to voice it--a question relating to his personal
affairs. Had not Juve, as Vagualame, clearly insinuated that Wilhelmine de
Naarboveck must have been the mistress of Captain Brocq? Had not de
Loubersac protested vehemently against such an odious calumny? But now
that he knew this statement was Juve's, he was in a state of torment--his
love was bleeding with the torture of it!

At last he summoned up courage to put the question to Juve.

Juve frowned, looked embarrassed. He had foreseen the question. He did

not believe that Wilhelmine de Naarboveck had been Captain Brocq's
mistress; but he knew there was an undecipherable mystery in this girl's
life, and he had an intuition that the discovery of this secret would probably
throw light on certain points which, as far as he was concerned, had
remained obscure. Was this fair-haired girl really the baron's daughter?
Since he had learned that Wilhelmine visited Lady Beltham's tomb
regularly--this notorious Lady Beltham, mistress of Fantômas--he had been
saying to himself:

"No--Mademoiselle Wilhelmine is not the daughter of de Naarboveck, the

rich diplomat! But who, then, is she?"
CHAPTER PAGE 231

Juve knew it was useless to say this to de Loubersac, blinded by love as he

was; but his aim--a rather Machiavellian one--was to sow seeds of
suspicion in the heart of this lover, which would drive him to provoke an
explanation, and force Wilhelmine to speak out, for she must surely know
the facts relating to her identity!

This Machiavellian Juve did not hesitate to say to de Loubersac:

"You remember what the false Vagualame told you when you talked with
him on the banks of the Seine?... You are to-day in the presence of this
false Vagualame--of me, Juve--as you know.... Well, I am sorry to tell you
that, whatever outside appearance I adopt, my way of thinking, my way of
seeing things seldom changes."

Henri de Loubersac understood: he grew pale: his lips were pressed tightly
together: he clenched his fists.

Satisfied with this result, Juve repeated to himself this celebrated aphorism
of the Bastille:

"Slander! Slander! Some of it always sticks!"

It was dark. In a little restaurant near by, the two men dined frugally: it was
a mediocre repast, not too well cooked. Anxious questionings tormented
them. The fugitives were long in coming: had they got wind of what was
afoot? Had Vinson and the priest been warned that detectives were hot on
their trail? If so, it was all up with the arrest!

De Loubersac remained on the watch. Juve returned to the police station.

He was crossing the threshold when the telephone shrilled. News from the
police sergeant at Rouen!

The corporal and the abbé, leaving Rouen, had taken the road to Barentin,
had dined at The Flowery Crossways Hotel, and, according to the
chauffeur's statement, they would pass the night there: they would reach
Dieppe next morning at the earliest possible moment.
CHAPTER PAGE 232

Juve hurried with the news to de Loubersac. After a short consultation they
separated: each pretended he was going to his own particular hotel to get
some rest.

*****

Juve did not quit the neighbourhood of the quay. Installed in a custom
house official's sentry box, he stolidly set himself to pass the night with
only his thoughts for company. An hour passed. Juve cocked a listening
ear; there were furtive footsteps--stealthy movements close by!... Juve
thrilled!... If it were the traitor Vinson? The steps came nearer, nearer. Juve
slipped out of his shelter. Someone rose up before him--and ... mutual
recognition, and laughter!

De Loubersac was on the watch as well!

Jovially, Juve summed up the situation:

"Lieutenant, we can truly declare that, civilian or soldier, in pursuit of our

duty we are ever on a war footing!"

Philosophically resigned to a wakeful night, the pair marched stolidly,

persistently, doggedly up and down the Dieppe quay--up and down--up and
down--an interminable up-and-down!

XXII

HAVE THEY BOLTED?

Whilst Juve and Henri de Loubersac were watching through the midnight
hours for the arrival of the traitors, Fandor in his hotel was also on the alert.
He did not mean to sleep a wink. The noise of the merry-making below
helped him in that.... The revellers retired at last, and silence fell on The
Flowery Crossways. Fandor, feigning sleep, lay as still as a mouse; but how
interminable seemed the hours!
CHAPTER PAGE 233

"Ah!" thought Fandor, "if only my abbé were sleeping, I should decamp;
but that little bundle of mystery is wide awake: I can sense his
wakefulness!"

Fandor lay listening for the next eternity of an hour to strike and pass into
limbo.... At last dawn began to break: the window curtains became
transparent, a cock crowed in the yard below, the voice of a stable-boy
sounded loud in the stillness of early day.

"You are awake, Corporal?" asked the priest in a low voice.

"Quite, Monsieur l'Abbé. You feel rested?"

"I only dosed off a little."

"Liar!" thought Fandor. He replied:

"That is just what I did!" Fandor yawned loudly.

"Will you get up first, Corporal? When you have finished dressing I will
start.... In that way we shall not interfere with each other."

"But, Monsieur l'Abbé, I do not want to keep you waiting.... Do get up

first!"

"Certainly not! No, no! Do not let us stand on ceremony."

Fandor did not insist. He was too pleased with his room-mate's request.

In next to no time--with a kind of barrack-room lick and

polish--Fandor-Vinson had washed his face, had dressed, was ready.

"My dear Abbé," said he, "if you would like me to, I will ascertain whether
your chauffeur is up, and will tell him to get ready to start."

"I was going to ask you to do that very thing, Corporal."

CHAPTER PAGE 234

As the door closed on him, Fandor turned with an ironic salute towards the
little priest.

"Much pleased!" said he to himself. "And with the hope of never meeting
you on my road without Juve on my heels to offer you a pair of
handcuffs--the right bracelets for you, and richly deserved."

Fandor did not awaken the chauffeur. He went into the yard: there he
encountered the hotel-keeper. A brazen lie was the safe way, he decided.

"We have passed a very good night," declared he. "My companions are
getting ready.... I am going to see if the car is in order for our start."

To himself Fandor added: "As my little priest's window looks in the

opposite direction he cannot see what I am up to."

Fandor was an expert chauffeur. The car was fully supplied with petrol and
water--was in admirable order. The hotel-keeper was watching him.

"If they ask for me," said Fandor-Vinson, "tell them I have gone for a test
run, and will be back in three minutes."

With that he jumped into his seat, set the car in motion, passed beneath the
archway and on to the high road. He turned in the direction of Barentin.

Fandor felt the charm of this early drive through the pastoral lands of
Normandy. Hope rose in him: was he not escaping from the terrifying
consequences of his Vinson masquerade!

"Evidently," thought he, "I must definitely abandon the rôle of soldier: the
risks are too great: if the military authorities laid me by the heels, it would
be all up with Fandor-Vinson!... The real Vinson is certainly in foreign
parts by now, and safe from arrest.... I know by sight the head spies at
Verdun, the Norbet brothers: the elegant tourist and his car, and that false
priest!... I can continue my investigations better in my own shoes, and I can
get Juve to help me!"
CHAPTER PAGE 235

His thoughts dwelt on the mysterious abbé.

"I would give a jolly lot to know who this pretended abbé really is!"

He tore through the village of Barentin at racing speed.

A covered cart full of peasants stopped the way. Fandor drew up. He
addressed the driver:

"Monsieur, I have rather lost my bearings: will you kindly tell me in which
direction the nearest railway station lies?"

The driver, who was the mail carrier for Maronne, answered civilly:

"You must go to Motteville, Corporal. At the first cross-roads you come to,
turn to the right--keep straight on--that will bring you to the station."

Corporal Fandor-Vinson thanked the man, and started off in the direction
indicated.

"All I have to do now," thought he, "is to discover some nice, lonely spot
for."...

Shortly after this he sighted a grove with a thick undergrowth. It bordered

the road. Fandor rushed his machine into a field, and brought it to a
stand-still in the centre of a clump of trees. He alighted.

"That motor is a good goer," said he, "but it is too dangerous a

companion--too conspicuous a mark."

As he thought of the stranded bundle of mystery at The Flowery Crossways

he laughed. Then he started for the station at a steady pace.

*****

The chauffeur woke. He saw it was nine o'clock.

CHAPTER PAGE 236

"Good lord!... I shall catch it hot! We were to start at eight!"

He dressed hastily; ran down to the yard; stared about him: his car had
vanished. Was he still dreaming?... He ran round to the front of the
hotel--no car! Was the car stolen?... Had they set off without him?... The
hotel-keeper was marketing in Rouen.... The stablemen could throw no
light on this mystery.

"Probably one of your masters has gone for a turn," suggested a man.

The chauffeur's anger grew.

"If they've dared to!" he shouted. "It is not their car!... I'm not in their
service!... That curé came to my garage yesterday and hired my car for an
outing.... What business has this curé or his soldier to move my car?... I'll
teach them who and what I am!"...

The farm boys, stable lads and men were shouting with laughter at the
chauffeur's fury. Said one:

"You know their room, don't you?... Why not see if they are in it?... Make
sure you have cause for all this dust up!"

The chauffeur rushed upstairs four at a time! He banged on the door of the
room taken by his temporary employer and the corporal--banged and
thumped!... No response!... He tried the door--unlocked!... He opened it,
looked in--empty!

Cursing and raging, the chauffeur clattered downstairs and collided with the
hotel-keeper.

"Where is my curé?" shouted the chauffeur.

"Your curé?" echoed the good fellow, staring.

"Yes, my curé. Or his corporal!... Where are they?... Where, I say?"

CHAPTER PAGE 237

"Where are they?" gaped the hotel-keeper.

The entire hotel staff was grouped in the background, laughing.

"It's my car! I can't find it!... Do you know where it is?"

"Your car!" exclaimed the hotel-keeper. "But the corporal went off two
hours ago and more! He was going for a 'trial spin,' was what he told me!"

"Was the curé with him?"

"No. The curé left just after him, saying he was going to send off a
telegram. Was it not true?"

The chauffeur sank on a chair.

"Here's a low-down trick!... Those dirty thieves have cut off with my car!
Let me catch them! I'll give them beans and a bit!"

The hotel was in an uproar; the wildest suggestions rained on the distracted
chauffeur. He pulled himself together; rose; called to the hotel-keeper, who
was mechanically searching the yard for the vanished car:

"Where is the police station? I must warn the police. That priest and
corporal cannot have got so very far in two hours! They did not leave
together: they had to meet somewhere: they may not know how to manage
the car ... that means delay--a breakdown, perhaps!"

Mine host of The Flowery Crossways was all the more ready to help the
chauffeur in that he had been cheated! Such fugitives would never pay him
the eighteen francs they owed him for bed and board unless they were
caught and made to disgorge.

"I will come with you to the police station," he announced. "I have my
complaint to make also!"
CHAPTER PAGE 238

At the police station they saw the police sergeant himself. The chauffeur
had barely begun his tale of woe when the sergeant interrupted with the
smile of one imparting good news:

"You state that you have lost a motor-car. Does it happen to be red, and will
seat four persons?"

"Yes. That's it! Have you seen it?"

"Does it happen to have for number 1430 G-7?"

"Exact!... Has it passed this way?"

"Wait!... Were there not goatskin wraps inside?"

"Yes!... Yes!"

The sergeant laughed silently.

"Very well, then! I should say you were in luck! Now I am going to tell you
where your car is!"

The chauffeur beamed. "You know where my car is?"

"I do--a bare fifteen minutes ago it was found in the--open fields, on Father
Flory's land, some seventeen hundred yards from the Motteville station....
Father Flory saw it when driving his cattle to pasture: he asked himself if
the car had not fallen from the skies during the night!"

The hotel-keeper and chauffeur stared at each other. What had possessed
the fugitives to steal the car and then cast it away in the open fields, so near
the scene of their theft?... The devil was in it?

The hotel-keeper had an idea they had fled to avoid paying his bill. The
chauffeur cared only to get to the car as quickly as possible, to assure
himself that it was his car, and was not injured beyond repair.
CHAPTER PAGE 239

After much haggling it was arranged that a little cart and horse should take
him to the desired spot. Meanwhile the hotel-keeper was to go about his
duties at The Flowery Crossways. The chauffeur must needs return and
telegraph to his garage in Paris for funds: he declared he had not a sou on
him.

Finally the chauffeur set off; perched on a big white mare which had been
rejected time and again by the Remount Department, he took the road at a
galloping trot. When he reached Father Flory's field he gave a sigh of
satisfaction. He recognised his car. It proved to be in good condition.
Whoever had driven it knew what he was about.

"It was the corporal," decided the joyful chauffeur. "That little curé would
be afraid of spoiling his little white hands!"

Surrounded by a crowd of peasants who had hurried from all the farms in
the neighbourhood, to see the motor-car which had grown up in a single
night in Father Flory's field, the chauffeur set his car in motion. Hard work!
The car had been driven deep into the soft soil.... At last he got to the road.

"A very good evening to you, ladies and gentlemen!" he shouted to the
peasants who, with ironic grins and hands in pockets, had watched him at
work. Not one had come forward to help him!

He set off at top speed for The Flowery Crossways.

*****

Meanwhile the police sergeant, important, in full official uniform, had

started for The Flowery Crossways, accompanied by the hotel-keeper.

"This affair requires looking into," he announced. "The law will have more
than a word to say about it. I must get further information and make notes."

He, with the hotel-keeper at his heels, mounted to the little room where
Fandor and the little priest had passed the night. The policeman uncovered
CHAPTER PAGE 240

on entering what he considered a sumptuous, superbly decorated room. He

had not the least idea how to set about his investigations in order to get the
best results. He seated himself in an arm-chair. He fixed his eyes on the
hotel-keeper.

"Do you know the name of these individuals?"

The hotel-keeper, thinking of the eighteen francs he had lost, and of how he
could indemnify himself, paid scant attention to the sergeant's so-called
investigations.

"Look here!" he cried. "That's a good thing! In their haste they have
forgotten to take this package!... There may be things of value in it!... I may
be able to pay myself out of them!"

The policeman rose: he also examined the package.

"In the name of the law I shall open this package to ascertain exactly what
is in it."

The two men undid the rope tightly bound round the covering; but whilst
mine host of The Flowery Crossways had no idea of what the contents of
the package signified, the sergeant, who had formerly served in the
artillery, went white: his voice was stern.

"This is serious--very serious--it is the mouthpiece of a large gun--larger

than any I have come across!"

*****

The recovered motor-car drew up before The Flowery Crossways with a

flourish. The beaming chauffeur jumped down and went towards the
hotel-keeper and the police sergeant.

"It was my car all right!" he cried. "And I believed that never again should I
set eyes on it!... When I think."...
CHAPTER PAGE 241

The chauffeur stopped short; the unresponsive hotel-keeper and the police
sergeant were staring at him fixedly. Not a word did they utter.

The chauffeur stared in turn: then he asked:

"Well?... What is it?... Are you frozen, you two?... What's the matter with
you?... I inform you that I have found my motor, and that's how you take
it!"

The police sergeant answered:

"I must ask you to give us some highly necessary information and
explanations.... Do you know anything about the priest and the soldier who
hired your car and you?"

There was a questioning pause. The chauffeur broke it.

"I have already told you that I do not know them.... If I did, things would
not have happened as they have!... Now, why have you asked me that
question?"

The policeman's reply was another question: his tone was stern.

"Then you declare you had no idea of what they were taking with them in
your car?"

"What they were taking with them in my car?" repeated the chauffeur in a
tone of bewildered interrogation.

The police sergeant marched up to him.

"Look here, now! It is incredible that you do not know what is in that
corded-up package you carried in your car! And now your masters have
disappeared; we are to believe that you know nothing about that either!...
And now you return!... What is the reason of that?... And is it to be
supposed that I am going to allow you to make off again without asking
CHAPTER PAGE 242

you to explain yourself and this extraordinary situation?"

The chauffeur saw that the hotel-keeper sided with the police sergeant:
there was no support to be got in that quarter.

"Explain yourself, policeman!" burst out the chauffeur. "What's all this
humbugging claptrap you are giving me?"

"In the name of the law!" declared the offended police officer, in solemn
tones: "I think it advisable to arrest you!... You may consider yourself my
prisoner!"...

As the astounded chauffeur could not find words to answer this, the
sergeant added:

"Ah! My fine fellow! This is the way, then, you steal guns to help the
Germans to shoot the French? It's a mercy I spotted you!"

"But you are mad!--mad!--mad!" protested the chauffeur.... "You."...

The police sergeant cut him short.

"That is enough!... I am going to take you to Rouen!... You can account for
yourself to the magistrates!"

XXIII

LONDON AND PARIS

Juve and Henri de Loubersac passed the night on the quay. Daybreak found
them marching side by side, keeping their weary watch and ward. De
Loubersac had fallen silent; monosyllabic replies to Juve's remarks had
given place to no remarks at all. Juve looked at Henri and smiled.

"He has gone to the country of dreams: he sleeps standing."

CHAPTER PAGE 243

In brotherly fashion, the policeman guided the young man towards the
shelter: settled him in, and left him. He was within call if needed;
meanwhile, he could have his sleep out.

Filling his pipe afresh, Juve resumed his walk along the quay. He was
uneasy; he was also in a bad humour. Why did Vinson and this priest tarry
on the way? Why should Corporal Vinson, bearer of this compromising
artillery piece, plant himself at a little hotel in Rouen for the night? Had
they been warned and stopped? Juve feared so.

"Evidently these men are acting for Fantômas," said he to himself:

"Fantômas must be watching the police: he knows them, but they do not
know him.... Suppose he knows of our arrival at Dieppe?... Suppose the two
traitors, being warned, have given our men the slip on the way? Suppose
this stop at Rouen was caused by the telegram they received at the
garage?... If our arrival here has been signalled, our watch will be fruitless:
neither Vinson nor the priest will show themselves on this quay!"

As he kept his tireless vigil. Juve eyed the yacht swinging gently on the
rising tide. Could he find a pretext which would take him aboard--justify a
thorough investigation of boat and crew?... The answer to more than one
tormenting problem might lie hidden there!

Then Juve recalled his talk with de Loubersac. Had he been happily
inspired to speak so to him of the girl he loved, the enigmatic Wilhelmine?
Suppose de Loubersac, instead of questioning her, broke with her?

"It would be abominable of me to spoil this child's love affair for what are
less than suspicions on my part--only the vaguest hypothesis!"

Juve smoked and ruminated as he paced the lonely quay.

"I need not worry," concluded he at last. "Granting that we shall clear up all
these mysteries, Wilhelmine's innocence, her candour, will be made
manifest; that being so, Henri de Loubersac will be the first to acknowledge
it, the first to beg her forgiveness!... Lovers' quarrels are not serious
CHAPTER PAGE 244

quarrels--so!"...

Juve continued his tireless promenade.

Sailors seeking their fishing-boats swung past him in the growing light of
day.

Juve looked at his watch.

"I told them to put on a special for the night, and they have instructions to
send me any telegrams.... Still, it is six o'clock.... I will see if there is
anything fresh!"

Juve found de Loubersac fast asleep in the sentry box, and shook him by
the shoulder.

"Lieutenant!... Lieutenant!" he shouted: "Wake up! I want you to keep

watch while I run to Headquarters here.... There may be news!"

De Loubersac jumped up, wide awake in a moment. He took his turn on the
quay at once. Juve hurried to the police station. He was on the doorstep
when a telegraph boy rode up with a telegram. It was for our detective. The
paper shook in Juve's hands as his eyes devoured the message: it was in
cypher.

"Corporal Vinson taken refuge in London--recognised and identified by me

this morning at four o'clock when leaving Victoria Station. I followed him
and know where he is. What to be done next? Awaiting your orders."

Juve wondered whether he was on his head or his heels. Vinson in London!
Left Victoria Station this morning! What did it mean?

"The wire is precise in its details. The man who sends it is a sharp police
spy--never hesitates, never makes a blunder!... It seems evident that Vinson
has given us the slip! He must have reached the coast at some point, and, in
an unnoticed boat, has passed under our noses this very night!... Here's a
CHAPTER PAGE 245

go! The very deuce of a go!"

Intensely irritated, excited, Juve read and reread the telegram, fussed and
fumed about the police station under the scared eyes of the policeman on
guard duty. That worthy began to think the detective from Paris was an
unmitigated nuisance.

Juve did not take this humble colleague into his confidence. He issued
orders.

"You must not stir from here till the superintendent arrives. You will hand
him this telegram addressed to me here. I will wire instructions in the
morning where they are to be forwarded to me in England."

"In England!"

"Yes, I am crossing immediately by a Cook's excursion steamer, which

goes in an hour, unless I am mistaken!"

Juve found de Loubersac pacing the quay. He had been smoking cigar after
cigar to clear his head. Juve handed him a sheet of paper; on it he had
copied the text of the telegram.

"Read that!" he cried.... "These confounded spies have found means to

escape our attentions--but this is not the end of the game!"

Lieutenant Henri was thunderstruck.

"What are you going to do, Juve?"

"Reach London with all speed. Will you come, Lieutenant?"

De Loubersac considered.

"No," he decided.... "In the first place, I have no right to leave the country
unless authorised to do so. I am not free to act according to my own good
CHAPTER PAGE 246

will and pleasure: besides, I have an idea there is work for me in Paris.... To
watch that little intriguer, Bobinette, will be an interesting task: from what
you told me yesterday, she is up to the neck in those villainous plots and
plans! While you investigate in London, Paris shall be my field of
operations. You approve of this, Juve?"

"I think you are right."

Juve accompanied the lieutenant to the station: de Loubersac was in a hurry

to be off. He would not wait for the noon express: he took the slow train.
As it began to move, he and Juve exchanged a cordial handshake.

"Good luck!" cried he.

"Thanks, Lieutenant. Good courage!"

The latter admonition was given with a purpose; for Juve was under no
illusion as to de Loubersac's feelings.

"At any other time," thought he, "de Loubersac would have seen it to be his
duty to accompany me to London: he could have secured an authorisation
from his headquarters if required; besides, attached to the Second Bureau as
he is, no doubt the ordinary military rules and regulations would hardly
apply to him: to a large extent he must be allowed a free hand in
emergencies. This is an emergency--an important one!... No, he wishes to
see Wilhelmine: he is in love, is worried, suspicious: he wishes to clear up
the mystery surrounding Wilhelmine's identity: he is determined to know
what exactly were her relations with Captain Brocq: also, he wants to find
out all there is to find regarding Bobinette and her doings.... To get to the
bottom of these dark mysteries, unravel the tangled threads needs a clear
head and a brave heart, for his feelings are deeply involved, and they may
yet be cut to the quick!... He is a straight goer, that young man!" was Juve's
concluding thought.... "He will do his duty: and when one does one's duty,
with rare exceptions, the result is happiness."

*****
CHAPTER PAGE 247

Whilst Juve returned to the jetty to await the departure of the excursion
steamer, Henri de Loubersac, alone in his compartment, reflected sadly on
his relations with Wilhelmine.... He had loved her a long time. A frank, a
sincere affection for her had gradually grown into a love which filled his
whole heart and mind. Juve's words had troubled him profoundly. This spy
chase had been a momentary distraction, but now his anxieties, his
suspicions, his fears, swarmed and buzzed among his thoughts: he could
not banish them!

His reflections so absorbed him that he lost consciousness of time and

place: when the train came to a stand-still in Rouen station, he could have
vowed they had left Dieppe but a few miles behind!

He would stretch his limbs on the platform. He jumped out; but, as he

strolled past the kiosks, gazing at the papers and magazines exhibited in
them, his mind was haunted but by one vision: Wilhelmine....

The train was about to leave: the porters were shouting: he hastened to his
compartment: his foot was on the mounting board: it might have been
nailed there, for the moment!... A young woman was seated in the further
corner. She had lowered her window, and, with head out, was either saying
good-bye to someone or was watching the comings and goings of the
station.

Her attitude, the lines of her figure, were familiar to de Loubersac. He felt
sure he knew her. He took his seat and awaited the turning of her head.

A piercing whistle and the train began to move. The young woman drew
back, pulled up the window, and sat back in her seat.

Henri de Loubersac saw her.

She made a movement of surprise.

"You! Monsieur Henri!"

CHAPTER PAGE 248

"You! Mademoiselle Bobinette!"

"By what chance?" began de Loubersac.

Bobinette interrupted:

"It is rather I who might ask you that, Monsieur Henri!... As for me, I have
been spending four days with my family at Rouen.... I asked for a holiday
and Monsieur de Naarboveck very kindly granted it ... but you?"

De Loubersac was nervously chewing the end of his blonde moustache.

With a shrug he replied:

"Oh, I! It is never surprising to meet me in a train: I am constantly on the

move: here--there--everywhere!... You have news of Mademoiselle
Wilhelmine?"

"Excellent news. You are coming to Monsieur de Naarboveck's soon?"

"I think of calling on the baron this evening."

Talk continued, commonplace, desultory. What questions crowded to his

lips, sternly repressed!

"She lies," thought he, while listening to the details of her family visit. "She
certainly lies!... I must pretend to be her dupe--the miserable creature!"

His whole soul revolted at the thought that this Bobinette, involved as she
must be in disgraceful adventures, abominable tragedies, shared
Wilhelmine's home, was her so-called friend! He was seized by a mad
desire to grip Bobinette by the throat--silence her lying tongue--arrest,
handcuff her on the spot--render her powerless!

He had noticed a vague line of black showing below her light coloured
taffeta skirt. It might be the frill of a petticoat just too long. Thinking no
more of it he continued to chat of indifferent things.... Presently, a quick
CHAPTER PAGE 249

movement of Bobinette's raised her skirt a little more. This time the
watchful de Loubersac could not be mistaken: he had seen clearly that what
showed beneath Bobinette's skirt, every now and again, was a priest's
cassock!

Bobinette's dress concealed the disguise of a priest.

Too well he understood the part this perverse creature had been playing!
Now he could account for their meeting in this train coming from Rouen!...
She had recently associated with Corporal Vinson as a priest. She had seen
him off, no doubt, and, anxious to rid herself of her ecclesiastical exterior
as quickly as might be, she had slipped on a dress over her ecclesiastical
garment.

What was all this but a painful confirmation of Juve's words?... How could
Wilhelmine be entirely ignorant of this dreadful creature's character? How
could Wilhelmine be wholly innocent of the terribly compromising actions
of her daily companion? Did Wilhelmine lack intuition? Was she without
that delicate sensitiveness which is the birthright of all nice women? How
could a pure girl breathe the miasmic atmosphere which must emanate from
the soul of this abominable woman?

It was terrible!

The desultory commonplace chat went on, whilst de Loubersac was

considering how best to act.

Arrest Bobinette?

Yes. He must not, dare not, hesitate. It was his duty. If he held this young
woman at his mercy, it was, perhaps, the only way, painful as it was, to
ultimately clear up the position of Wilhelmine.

How proceed?
CHAPTER PAGE 250

Whilst still chattering of this and that, Henri de Loubersac made up his
mind.

"Being a soldier, and not a policeman, I cannot myself arrest this woman.
The scandal would be tremendous! I should get into the hottest of hot water
with my chiefs: it is not my job.... Directly we arrive at the Saint Lazare
station I will manage to signal one of the plain clothes men always on the
watch there! Two of them will have her fast before she knows where she
is!"

This seemed the easier because Bobinette had a heavy valise with her: she
would have to call a porter and give him instructions--this would give him
time to act.

Reassured, Henri de Loubersac continued to laugh and joke, though it went

sorely against the grain....

At last! Saint Lazare station! The train stopped.

"I will say good-bye, Mademoiselle Bobinette.... I must hurry away!... You
will excuse me?"

De Loubersac leaped on to the platform, jostling the passengers crowding

his path. He must reach the platform exit without a second's delay!... As he
handed his ticket to the collecter, a hubbub arose. Passengers were
stopping, turning back, running--something sensational must have
happened!

He paused. He heard a porter at his elbow say in a low voice:

"Don't stop, Monsieur Henri--you may be noticed."

De Loubersac identified the speaker as a man in the employ of the Second

Bureau. He handed his wraps to this detective, dressed as an ordinary
porter.
CHAPTER PAGE 251

"What is happening, then?" he asked.

"An arrest, ordered by the Second Bureau. There was a man, or a woman,
in your train."

"Ah, Bobinette must have been identified at Rouen when she got into the
train--Juve's men must have wired from there!" Henri de Loubersac
rejoiced. How he hated this creature, whose detestable influence must harm
Wilhelmine, whose wickedness might work woe to the girl he loved! This
traitorous wretch would be under lock and key now!

Splendid!

With mind relieved, he thanked the informer and prepared to leave the
station. But, as he descended the steps leading to the Cour du Havre he
stopped. Two police detectives whom he knew well were walking on either
side a soldier in corporal's uniform--Vinson, of course! They must be
taking him to the Cherche Midi prison.

De Loubersac realised what had happened.

"By-Jove! The telegram Juve had received at Dieppe must have been
false!... Vinson and Bobinette, discovering that they were under
observation, had found means to send Juve a telegram announcing that
Vinson had been met in London: having thus drawn Juve over to England
they had returned to Paris.... The traitors must have separated: this would
lessen their chances of being recognised.... They must have arrested Vinson
as he was leaving the train.... Bobinette, become unrecognisable when her
cassock was hidden, must have escaped!"

De Loubersac ran back. He hunted the station all over. He jumped into a
taxi and drove up and down all the adjoining streets; but the chase was a
useless one! Bobinette was invisible--Bobinette had seized her opportunity.
She had disappeared!

XXIV
CHAPTER PAGE 252

AN APPETISER AT ROBERT'S BAR

"Have another whisky, old sport?"

"Not I! We have taken too much on board as it is."

"You must! You must! Seen through the gold of old Scotch, life seems
more beautiful, and the barmaids more fetching."

Perched on the high stools which allowed them to lean on the rail of the bar
the two topers solemnly clinked glasses.

The younger of the two, a lean, dark fellow, emptied his glass at one go, but
his companion, a big fair man about thirty-five, clean shaven, and slightly
bald, handled his glass so awkwardly that the contents escaped on to the
floor.

The big fair man called for fresh drinks. Their glasses were refilled so
quickly that the dark young man failed to notice it: he drank on and on
automatically, as though wound up to do so, but his companion barely
wetted his lips with the intoxicating liquor.

It was six o'clock and a dismal December evening; but there was an
animated cosmopolitan crowd in Robert's bar.

Robert's of London is the equivalent of Maxim's of Paris. The great place

for luxurious entertainments, it opens its doors at twilight, and does not
close them till the small hours are well advanced. When evening falls, the
scene grows animated: business men and women of pleasure crowd the
rooms. Gradually the crowd assumes a cosmopolitan character. A band of
Hungarian gipsies plays inspiriting and seductive music. The crush
increases, the noise grows louder, and amidst this babel of voices, the
racket, the din, the barmaids ply their trade with calm determination: they
flirt with their customers and egg them on to drink glass after glass of wine
and spirits for the good of the house, in an atmosphere thick with tobacco
smoke.
CHAPTER PAGE 253

Every ten minutes or so, a newspaper boy slips in with the latest evening
editions, to be chased out by one of the managers of mixed nationality who,
for the most part, talk in a strangely mixed tongue, partly French, partly
English.

In this noisy crowded place the two drinkers were talking together
familiarly.

The dark young man, after having listened with curiosity to the confidences
of his companion, which must have been of an extraordinary nature,
judging by the exclamations of surprise they evoked, asked:

"But what is your profession, then?"

"But I have already told you," replied the fat man. "I am a clown--a musical
clown.... I interpret comic romances.... I dress up as a negro, I play the
banjo!" This jovial individual began humming an air which was the rage of
the moment.

The dark young man interrupted with another question:

"What is your native country, Tommy?"

"Oh, I am a Belgian.... And you, Butler?"

The dark young man, who answered to the name of Butler, gave what had
to pass for an account of himself.

"I ... I'm Canadian--just come from Canada--hardly three months ago."

"As much as that?" remarked fat Tommy.

Butler seemed upset by this question.

"Yes, yes!... And I feel very anxious, because I don't know my way about,
and I don't know English very well, and I can't find work, try as I will ... it
CHAPTER PAGE 254

seems no use."...

"What can you do?"

"A little of everything."

"That is to say--nothing!"

Butler said slowly:

"I can do book-keeping."

The clown burst out laughing.

"That will not take you far! There are hundreds and hundreds of
stick-in-the-muds at that job!"

"What do you want me to do, then?" asked Butler.

His plump acquaintance put a hand on his shoulder.

"There is only one career in the world--the theatre!... There is only one
profession worth following, that of artiste!... See how I have succeeded!
And without having received the least instruction, for my parents never
cared a hang for my future--I soon earned plenty money; now, though still
in the full flush of young man-hood, I am on the point of making a
fortune!"

The clown evidently fancied himself, for he was of a ripe age--no chicken.

His companion gazed at him admiringly.

Certainly the clown looked wealthy: his thick watch-chain was gold,
English sovereigns, ostentatiously displayed, were stuffed in a bulging
purse: his appearance justified his boasts.
CHAPTER PAGE 255

"I would ask nothing better than to get into a theatre," said Butler with a
simple air, "but I don't know how to do anything!"

The clown shot a shrewd glance at his companion: Butler's face was
flushed, his eyes were wandering: his wits seemed dulled: the glasses of
whisky were having their effect.

Tommy murmured into Butler's ear:

"I have known you but a short time, but we are in sympathy, and already I
feel a very great friendship for you. Tell me, is it the same on your side?"

Touched by this cordiality, Butler raised a shaky hand above his glass and
declared:

"I swear it!"

"Good! My dear Butler, I think things will arrange themselves marvellously

well.... Just fancy! When walking on the Thames Embankment to-day, I
met a theatrical manager whom I have known this long while ... a very
good fellow, called Paul.... Naturally we had a glass together.... Then I
asked him what he was doing. His answer was 'I am looking for an artiste!'
Of course, I suggested myself! Paul explained that he did not need a clown,
but a professor.... I promised to find him one if I could.... Would you like to
be this professor?"

"Professor of what?" questioned Butler, who, in spite of his growing

intoxication, was lending an attentive ear to clown Tommy, who laughed at
the question.

"You would never guess who would be your pupils!... You would have to
teach Japanese canaries to sing!"

Butler considered this a joke in the worst of taste. The clown declared there
was nothing ridiculous about teaching Japanese canaries to sing.... The
important point was that the professor of singing Japanese canary birds
CHAPTER PAGE 256

would receive immediate payment.

Whilst Butler was turning over this offer in his muddled mind--for he had
persuaded himself that the offer was a genuine one--the clown fidgeted on
his high stool, and hummed an air from Faust in a falsetto voice. The clown
stopped.

"Come, Butler, is it settled?"

Butler hesitated.

"I am not sure that I had better."

"But yes, certainly you had better," insisted the clown. "And, as it happens,
I have agreed to dine with this manager he must be in the room
downstairs.... I will go and look for him!... We three could meet and talk
the thing over."

"Where should I have to go?" asked Butler. "To what country?"

"To Belgium, of course," replied Tommy. "The manager is a Belgian, like

myself--we are compatriots."

The clown, judging that his companion had decided to accept the offer, left
him, saying:

"I am going to find the manager and tell him my friend Butler will be his
professor of Japanese singing canaries."

Butler sighed, then swallowed another glass of whisky.

Pushing his way among the crowded tables of the front downstairs room,
the clown reached the end of the room. He approached a clean-shaven man
seated before a full glass: it was untouched.

"Monsieur Juve?" asked Tommy in a low voice.

CHAPTER PAGE 257

Juve nodded.

"Captain Loreuil?"

"That is so: at present, Tommy, musical Belgian clown. And you are
Monsieur Paul, theatrical manager.... That is according to our arrangement,
is it not?"

"Quite so.... Anything fresh?"

Loreuil smiled. "I have got your man."

"Sure of it?"

Loreuil seated himself next Juve. He spoke low.

"He calls himself Butler ... says he is Canadian.... He declares he has been
in London some time: it is a falsehood. I recognise him perfectly. I had
already seen him at Châlons, when he had a connection with the singer
Nichoune, and we suspected him of being the author of the leakages in the
offices of the Headquarters Staff."

"That is Corporal Vinson, then?"

"Consequently you must intervene," said Loreuil.

Juve reflected. After a short silence he said:

"Intervene! You go too fast. Remember we are in a foreign country, and

there is no question of a common law crime: Vinson is not accused of
murder, simply of treason.

"I like that word 'simply,'" remarked Loreuil ironically.

"Don't take that in bad part," smiled Juve; "but it has its importance from an
international point of view. I cannot arrest Vinson in England on the pretext
CHAPTER PAGE 258

that he is a spy."

"Happily we have foreseen that difficulty," said Loreuil. "Butler will

accompany us to Belgium. He believes we are Belgians. Belgium means
France, as far as we are concerned--the three of us!"

Juve had reached London the evening before. He had found at Scotland
Yard several telegrams and a private note from a detective friend,
informing him of the arrival of an individual known to be an officer of the
Second Bureau.

Juve met Loreuil. The two men, on the same quest, put their heads together.
They were soon on the track of Vinson. A man answering to his description
had been in London several weeks. This was the truth. Juve would not
admit it. He believed Vinson had arrived in England only a few hours
ahead of him.

Loreuil, whose mission did not include the arrest of Vinson, considered he
had done his part as soon as he had identified the corporal. Juve would do
the rest.

"We are agreed, then!" said Loreuil. "If I introduce you to Butler as Paul,
the theatrical manager, who wishes to engage him as trainer of canaries ...
the rest you can manage for yourself.... Be circumspect! The fellow is on
the lookout!"

"He must leave with me to-night--it is urgent!" insisted Juve.... "You must
help me, Captain!"

Captain Loreuil frowned.

"I must confess I don't like this sort of thing!" said he.

"But this affair is more serious even than you know," said Juve. "This
Vinson business does not stand alone: it is but a strand in a vast network of
mystery and wickedness of the most malignant kind."
CHAPTER PAGE 259

Still the captain was reluctant. To take part in such a sinister comedy; to
make a poor wretch tipsy in order to deliver him to the authorities for
punishment, wounded the captain's self-respect. Juve overcame his
hesitations with the words:

"It is not merely a secret service matter, Monsieur: it is a question of

National Defence."

"I will help you, Monsieur," was the captain's answer to this, adding:

"Let us go up! Our man's patience must be giving out."

XXV

THE ARREST

The Dover Express, the Continental Mail, was moving out of Charing
Cross station.

Three travellers were seated in a first-class compartment. They were

smoking big cigars: their eyes were bright, their cheeks flushed; they
looked like big men who had dined well. These were Butler, Tommy and
Paul, leaving for Belgium: otherwise Juve, Loreuil and Vinson bound for
France! Copious libations of generous wines and strong liqueurs had
reduced Butler-Vinson to the condition of a maudlin puppet: Tommy and
Paul had made Butler most conveniently drunk.

The train rushed forward through station after station, brilliantly lighted,
then plunged into the obscurity of the country. A stupefying warmth from
the heating apparatus impelled slumber. Unfortunate Butler-Vinson, lulled
by the regular movement of the train, was soon fast asleep.

Juve and Loreuil kept vigil. They were sitting side by side facing their
captive.
CHAPTER PAGE 260

"Dover will be the difficulty," whispered Juve, who had drawn closer to the
captain.

"Yes, that is the crucial point," agreed Loreuil....

The express was entering the tunnels pierced in the precipitous coastline of
the Channel near Dover. There was a short stop at Dover Town station
before it drew up on the Pier. There the travellers would embark. Of these
there were two distant streams: those crossing to Belgium: those bound for
France. Butler-Vinson still slept soundly. Juve was waiting till the last
minute. Then he would awaken his prisoner as he already considered him
and shepherd him aboard the Calais boat.

Captain Loreuil got out and went on ahead.

"Come along, Butler!" Juve cried suddenly. He shook the slumbering traitor
sharply.

Butler-Vinson leaped to his feet with frightened eyes and gaping mouth.

"What is it?" he stuttered. "What do you want with me?"

Juve's smile was a masterpiece of hypocrisy.

"Why, old fellow, you must wake up! We must go aboard our boat!"

The corporal heard men shouting:

"Steamer Victoria for Ostend! Steamer Empress for Calais!"

"We must hurry!" cried Juve, pushing the bemused Butler-Vinson out of
the compartment.

There was a sea fog growing denser every minute. Without their powerful
electric lights it would have been impossible to recognise the boats or the
gangways leading to them.
CHAPTER PAGE 261

Juve had Butler by the arm: a necessary precaution, for the wretched man
could scarcely keep on his feet. Juve propelled him towards a gangway: a
minute later both were on the boat.

Vinson caught sight of the inscription Empress on the lifebuoys. A flash of

reason illumined Butler-Vinson's drink-soddened mind. He hesitated, drew
back with a frightened look.

"Didn't I hear just now that this boat goes to Calais?"

A passing sailor heard this question. He was about to enlighten

Butler-Vinson, but Juve pushed him aside--this imbecile was going to spoil
everything!

"No, old fellow, you are quite mistaken! It is the Victoria that goes to
Calais: we go to Ostend with the Empress."

Butler-Vinson accepted this statement as true.

An ear-piercing whistle sounded; the cables were drawn up: a vibratory

motion told the passengers they were off.

The mast-head light was extinguished: the mail-boat silently made its way
out to sea.

There was a dense fog in the Channel. The fog-horn sounded its lugubrious
note.

The sea was rough: a strong wind from the south-west had been blowing all
the afternoon. The boat began to pitch and toss: the passengers were
drenched.

Though nothing of a sailor in the nautical sense, Juve took his duckings
with equanimity: a bit of a pitch and toss would keep Vinson occupied.
CHAPTER PAGE 262

The fog was Juve's friend: it lent an air of vagueness, of confusion, to

Butler-Vinson's surroundings. The vagaries of the steamer would further
distract what thoughts he was capable of. Still, they were on an English
boat, and should the corporal grasp what was happening and refuse to
disembark, Juve would be in a fix. Butler-Vinson must be kept in ignorance
of the truth till they were on French soil.

Captain Loreuil had remained at Dover, declaring he still had much to do in

England. Besides, he could not be brought to consider that to arrest
criminals came within the scope of his duties: to mark them down, point
them out, yes. Thus he had tracked down the traitor and left him in good
hands.

Meanwhile, Butler-Vinson was suffering from a severe attack of

sea-sickness. His head seemed splitting with throbbing pain.

"How long shall we be getting across?" he asked in a faint voice.

"Three hours," said Juve: this was the crossing time between Dover and
Ostend.

Heavy cross-seas were running. Those who braved the buffetings and
drenchings above deck were now few: it was a villainous crossing!

At the end of an hour and a half the odious waltz of the steamer slowed
down. The fog-horn was silent: the Empress moved alongside the jetties of
Calais.

The gangways were let down; porters invaded the deck, carrying away
luggage to the trains awaiting the travellers in the terminus station.

"Now for it!" thought Juve.

Once on French soil it was all up with the liberty of Corporal Vinson! His
arrest would be immediate.
CHAPTER PAGE 263

Juve considered the miserable heap collapsed on a side bench: this

traitorous rag of humanity had once been an upright man--a true soldier of
France! It was terrible! It was piteous!

Juve raised Butler-Vinson. The wretched fellow could hardly stand up.
Juve signed to a sailor, who took the corporal's left arm while Juve
supported him on the right. Vinson disembarked. He set his feet on the
soil--the sacred soil of France!

The crowd was pouring into the great hall, where customs officers were
examining the small baggage.

Juve drew Butler-Vinson to the left: the traitor must not catch sight of the
French uniforms. An individual seemed to rise out of the ground in front of
them: Juve said to him in a low voice:

"Our man!"

*****

Revived by a cordial, Vinson gradually recovered his senses. Painfully he

raised his heavy eyelids: he looked about him curiously, anxiously. He was
in a large, square room, dimly lighted, almost empty, with bare white walls.

"Where am I?" he asked Juve. Three men surrounded him. Juve's was the
sole face he knew.

Juve wore a solemn look: his words were gently spoken.

"You are at Calais, in the special police quarters connected with the station.
Corporal Vinson, I am sorry to have to tell you that you are under arrest."

"My God!" exclaimed the traitor. He attempted to rise, but fell back on his
seat: his eyes were staring at the handcuffs on his wrists! He burst into
tears.
CHAPTER PAGE 264

Juve felt pity for this miserable being, huddled up there in the depths of
humiliation and terror. But the dreadful fact remained--Vinson was a
criminal, a traitor! Perhaps his errors were due to a bad bringing-up, to
deplorable examples, alas!... Juve was not there to pass judgment, but to
deliver the guilty wretch into the hands of the authorities.

"Come now!" he said, tapping Vinson on the shoulder. "Come, we are

leaving for Paris!"

Corporal Vinson, traitor, raised supplicating eyes to Juve: then, realising all
resistance was vain, he rose painfully: he assumed an air of indifference.

A policeman from Headquarters had joined Juve. The three men got into an
empty second-class compartment.

In a voice quivering with shame, Vinson begged Juve not to allow anyone
to enter. "I should be so ashamed," he muttered, with hanging head and
hunched shoulders.

"We shall do our best to prevent it," Juve assured him. After an explanation
with the station-master, the compartment was labelled "Reserved."

The train started. Vinson was wide awake now, and dejected to the last
degree. After a hand-to-mouth existence, but still a free one, in England, he
had allowed himself to be nabbed by the police, like the veriest simpleton!
The papers would be full of it!

Vinson, who had been led into criminal ways by his love for a bad woman,
troubled himself much less regarding the punishment to be meted out to
him than about the dreadful distress his arrest would cause his mother. The
old Alsatian mother, when she learned that her son was in prison charged
with treason to France, would die of grief. Vinson wished with all his heart
that he had stuck to his first decision--that he had killed himself rather than
make confession to the journalist, Jérôme Fandor, who had wished to save
him, and had helped him to escape, but who had really done him a bad
service, since, deserter as he was, he had been caught like the most vulgar
CHAPTER PAGE 265

of criminals!

The train stopped at a station.

"I am dying of thirst," mumbled Vinson.

Juve sent his second in command for a bottle of water from the refreshment
buffet.

Vinson thanked Juve with a grateful nod.

Refreshed, Vinson pulled his wits together.

Juve, noticing this, began questioning him, promising to treat him as well
as he possibly could, if he would speak out, in confidence; assuring him of
the leniency of the judges if he consented to denounce his accomplices.

When Vinson realised that he was to stand his trial for spying, for betraying
his country, as well as for desertion, he was only too glad to obey Juve's
suggestion.

"Ah!" murmured he, while tears rolled down his cheeks, "Cursed be the day
when I first agreed to enter into relations with the band of criminals who
have made of me what I am to-day!"

Vinson gave Juve a full account of his temptation, his errors; nevertheless
he did not tell the detective of his relations with Jérôme Fandor. Had he not
promised absolute secrecy? Traitor and spy as he was, Vinson had given his
word of honour, and this journalist had been kind to him in return, had
given him a chance to escape and start afresh: not for anything in the world
would he have betrayed his oath!

Juve was a hundred leagues from suspecting the substitution which had
taken place between Vinson and Fandor. He was convinced he had
Corporal Vinson before his eyes; but he also thought he had his grip on the
individual who had left Paris the night before, accompanied by an
CHAPTER PAGE 266

ecclesiastic, for the purpose of handing over to a foreign power a most

important piece of a gun stolen from the Arsenal, as well as the descriptive
plan that went with it.

But when he cross-questioned Vinson on this point, the corporal did not in
the least understand what he was driving at! Juve, who had been
congratulating himself on his prisoner's frankness, grew angry with what he
believed was a culpable reservation. Why did the corporal, who, up to this,
had spoken so freely, now feign ignorance of the gun piece affair?... Well,
he would find out his prisoner's reasons presently.... Not wishing to scare
him, Juve changed the subject.... He had any number of questions to ask the
culprit. Did he not know Vagualame, the real Vagualame?

Vinson told him many things about the old accordion player with the
patriarchal white beard which he already knew; but one remark particularly
impressed him.

"If only the police knew all that goes on in the house in the rue Monge!"...
Vinson stopped short.

This remark opened new horizons to Juve. When they arrived at the North
station, some hours later, and Juve had transferred his prisoner to a cab,
giving the driver the address of the Cherche-Midi prison, our detective had
learned that Vagualame-Fantômas was in the habit of visiting a mysterious
house in rue Monge. Here he met many of his accomplices. It was here the
band of spies and traitors, of which he seemed chief, disguised themselves,
issuing forth to ply their nefarious trade and mock the police.

Juve made a compact with himself.

"As soon as I have handed my corporal over to the military jailors, I know
where I shall go to smoke a cigarette!"

XXVI

WILHELMINE'S SECRET
CHAPTER PAGE 267

"You are alone, Wilhelmine?"

Mademoiselle de Naarboveck had just left the house in the rue Fabert. It
was three in the afternoon, and she was going shopping. At the corner of
the rue de l'Université she came on Henri de Loubersac.

It was a delightful surprise. She had not seen him for several days. She was
aware of the difficult and dangerous nature of her future fiancé's duties; that
they frequently took him from Paris for days at a time; that they forbade
him writing even a post card to let her know where he was!... Now she felt
delightedly sure that he had taken advantage of his first free moment to pay
her a visit. How charming of him!

The truth was that de Loubersac, whose anxieties and suspicions had
increased hour by hour, till he was suffering the tortures of the damned, had
made up his mind to have a decisive talk with Wilhelmine. A clear and
final explanation he would have, cost what it might!

Full of joy at the meeting, Wilhelmine did not seem to notice his anxious
looks, his strained expression. She answered his question with a welcoming
smile.

"I am alone."

"Your father?"

"Went away this morning: the calls of diplomacy are numerous, and
frequently sudden, you know!"

"And Mademoiselle Berthe?"

Wilhelmine raised her beautiful bright eyes and met her fiancé's
questioning glance.

"No news of her for several days. Berthe seems to have disappeared." Her
tone was grave.
CHAPTER PAGE 268

De Loubersac did not speak: mechanically he fitted his step to

Wilhelmine's. Presently he asked:

"Where do you think of going?"

"I was going to do a little shopping ... nothing much ... there is no sort of
hurry!"

She felt that Henri wished to discuss something important with her: hers
was too direct a nature to put him off with flimsy excuses when he desired
a serious talk.

"Should we walk on a little, talking as we go?" she suggested, with a

charming smile. To walk and talk with Henri was such a pleasure!

De Loubersac agreed.

The young couple crossed the Esplanade des Invalides, and by way of the
rue Saint-Dominique, the boulevard Saint-Germain, and rue Buonaparte,
reached the Luxembourg Gardens. Here they could talk at ease.

A few casual remarks, and Henri de Loubersac came to his point.

"Dear Wilhelmine, there is a series of mysteries in your life which I cannot

help thinking about: mysteries which trouble me greatly!... Forgive me for
speaking to you so frankly!... You know how sincere my feeling for you
is!... My love for you is strong and deep.... My one desire in life is to join
my fate, my existence, to yours.... But before that, there are some things we
must speak of together, serious things perhaps, about which we must have a
clear understanding."

Wilhelmine had grown strangely pale. Despite the protestations of love in

which her future fiancé had wrapped his questions, she was greatly
troubled. The painful moment she had waited for had come: she must tell
Henri de Loubersac the secret of her life: no very grave secret if considered
by itself; but the consequences of it, and the innumerable deductions that
CHAPTER PAGE 269

could be drawn from it, might react unfavourably on their relations to each
other!

Wilhelmine must speak out.

They were just outside the church of Saint-Sulpice. Some large drops of
rain fell.

"Let us go into the church!" said Wilhelmine: "It will be quiet there. If what
I have to say to you is said in that holy place, you will feel that I am
speaking the truth. It is almost a confession." The poor girl's voice trembled
slightly as she uttered these decisive words--words that frightened de
Loubersac. What shocking revelations did they foreshadow?

He acquiesced: the lovers entered the porch.

As he stepped aside to let Wilhelmine pass, he noticed a cab with drawn

blinds which had that minute drawn up not far from the space in front of the
church. He examined it anxiously.

"It seemed to me we were being followed--shadowed," replied de

Loubersac. "It is of little importance, however--we must expect that in our
service."

"Yes, you also have secrets," remarked Wilhelmine.

"They are only professional ones: there is nothing about my personality to

hide: my life is an open book for all the world to read!"

De Loubersac's tone was hard.

It hurt Wilhelmine.

*****
CHAPTER PAGE 270

For some while they had been seated behind a pillar, in the shadow:
Wilhelmine had been speaking: Henri had been listening.

She told him she was not the daughter of the baron de Naarboveck, that her
real name was Thérèse Auvernois.[5]

[Footnote 5: See Fantômas: vol. i, Fantômas Series.]

This told de Loubersac nothing.

Wilhelmine explained that her childhood had been passed in an ancient

château, on the banks of the Dordogne, with her grandmother, the Marquise
de Langrune. One fatal December day the Marquise had been assassinated.
They were led to believe the assassin was a young man, son of a friend of
the family, by name, Charles Rambert. This tragedy had altered the whole
course of the orphan girl's life. She was taken care of by the father of the
supposed murderer, a worthy old man, Monsieur Etionne Rambert. He
recommended her to Lady Beltham, whose husband had been murdered
some months before; thus the bereaved girl came to live under Lady
Beltham's wing, and grew very fond of her. Then Monsieur Etionne
Rambert disappeared in a shipwreck, and Wilhelmine went with Lady
Beltham to her castle in Scotland.

Two peaceful years passed. Among other friends and visitors, Wilhelmine
met the Baron de Naarboveck, a foreign diplomat. Then Lady Beltham
went to France, and one sad day the orphan girl learned that her mother by
adoption had died there![6]

[Footnote 6: See The Exploits of Juve: vol. ii, Fantômas Series.]

Six dreary, anxious months followed. Then the baron, the only person in
the whole world who seemed to care whether she lived or died, came to
find her. He took her to Paris. There he decided to pass her off as his
daughter, declaring he had very grave reasons for doing so.
CHAPTER PAGE 271

Though making her the centre of a mystery, for undeclared reasons of his
own, de Naarboveck was very good to her, helped her to unravel her
financial affairs, and informed her that she was the owner of a large
fortune. He told her that some day she would have to go to a foreign
country to take possession of this fortune--the baron did not say where.

Wilhelmine stopped her narrative, jumped up, pointing to a shadow moving

across an altar.

"Did you see?" she questioned anxiously.

"I think I did," answered Henri de Loubersac. "It is the shadow of some
passer-by thrown into relief on the light background."

"Oh, I hope we are not being spied on!"

"Of whom are you afraid?" asked de Loubersac.

Wilhelmine--or Thérèse Auvernois, as she had confessed herself to

be--glanced about her. There was not a soul within hearing! Now she would
speak her mind to Henri--her dear Henri--and tell him all.

"You want to know, dear one, why my existence has been surrounded with
so many mysterious precautions of late years! You wish to know why the
baron is so determined that my real identity should remain hidden! You are
right; for I have long asked myself the same question. When I spoke to the
baron about this for the first time--it was only a few weeks ago, and told
him that I wished to appear as what I really am, Thérèse Auvernois, my
father by adoption--I may call him that, seeing how good, how kind he has
been to me--began by telling me it was impossible--that the most terrible
misfortunes would result from such a revelation.... I insisted. I wanted to
know what these dreadful misfortunes would be, and why they would
follow as a matter of course, were it made known that I am Thérèse
Auvernois. Thereupon the baron told me astonishing things.
CHAPTER PAGE 272

"According to him, from the time of my poor grandmother's death, I, and

those near to me, all those about me, were pursued, not only by a terrible
fatality, but also by a being, who, for unknown motives, wished to sow
perpetual death and terror among those intimately connected with us.

"The baron did not want to talk of all this, but I made him speak out. Bit by
bit, I learned the details of one of those tragedies which touched my life
when a child. I went to the National Library, secretly, and looked through
the newspapers of that period. I noticed that in whatever concerned us,
whether legally or privately, closely or distantly, one name appeared and
reappeared, a terrifying and legendary name, the name of a being we think
of but dare not mention--the name of Fantômas!"

Henri de Loubersac was staggered. This statement of the girl he knew as

Wilhelmine de Naarboveck, far from impressing him favourably, seemed to
him an improbable story invented, every bit of it, for the sole purpose of
putting him on the wrong track.

He had learned to love this charming girl, believing her to be sincere,

honest, pure, brought up as a young girl should be, amidst elegant and
distinguished surroundings: now, behold an abyss opened before his eyes,
separating him from one whom he was now inclined to consider an
adventuress.

He remembered Juve's words!

Granting the truth of her statement, that a tragedy had shadowed her young
life and altered her existence, this did not prevent her from having been
seduced by Captain Brocq! Rather, her early experiences would tend to
break down the barriers, behind which nice girls lived and moved!... There
were things that called for an explanation! For instance, how explain the
intimacy existing between de Naarboveck, his so-called daughter, and this
Mademoiselle Berthe, whose part in the affair engaging de Loubersac's
attention was open to the gravest suspicions?...
CHAPTER PAGE 273

Wilhelmine continued what she called her confession, thinking aloud,

opening her heart, confiding in her dear Henri, whose silence she took for
sympathy and encouragement.

"Fantômas," she murmured: "I cannot tell you how often I have thought
over this maddening, this puzzling personality, terrifying beyond words,
who seems implacably bent on our destruction!... Again and again I have
had reason to fear that his ill-omened influence has been directed against
my humble self!... As if he guessed something of this, the baron has
frequently sought to reassure me; yet, through some singular coincidence,
each time we have spoken of Fantômas a tragedy has occurred, a dreadful
tragedy, which has reminded us of monstrous crimes committed by him in
the past!"

Wilhelmine's statements were impressing de Loubersac less and less

favourably.

"Play acting--and clumsy play acting at that!" decided Henri: "Done to

avert my suspicions, imagined to feed my curiosity!... She thinks herself a
capable player at the game! She does not know the person she is playing
with!"

De Loubersac came to a decision. He rose, stood close to Wilhelmine, who

also rose, instinctively, looked her straight in the face, and asked,
point-blank:

"Wilhelmine de Naarboveck, or Thérèse Auvernois--it matters little to

me--I wish to know the real truth.... Confess, then, that you were Captain
Brocq's mistress!"

"Monsieur!" exclaimed the startled girl. She met de Loubersac's

inquisitorial look proudly.

His penetrating stare did not falter.

CHAPTER PAGE 274

Suddenly Wilhelmine's lips began to tremble. She grew deadly pale: she
might have been on the verge of a fainting fit. She had realised the
incredulity of the man to whom, in her chaste innocence, she had given her
heart. In the pure soul of this loving girl an immense void made itself felt. It
was as though a flashlight had revealed to her the lamentable truth: that the
strange position in which destiny had placed her--a position strange but not
infamous--had made of her a being apart, had put her outside the ordinary
life of humanity, outside the law of love!... A desire to explain, to convince,
to justify herself, the desire of a desperate creature at bay, burned up in her
like a flame: it flashed and died. Henri had no confidence in her! He
believed this odious thing of her--this abominable, incredible thing!... Her
heart was full to bursting with an agony of grief, of outraged innocence....
She looked him straight in the eyes--her own flashing fury.

"You insult me!" she cried.... "Withdraw what you have just said!... You
will apologise!"

De Loubersac said in a low, distinct voice:

"I maintain my accusation, Mademoiselle, until you have furnished me with

absolute, undeniable proofs!"...

De Loubersac's voice failed him. Wilhelmine had turned from him. She
hurried to the door, descended the church steps, and threw herself into a
passing cab.

De Loubersac had followed her.

In tones of contempt she had flung at him the words:

"Farewell, monsieur--and for ever!"

Henri's answer was a shrug of the shoulder.

As he stood there, an outline, a shadow, appeared under the church porch: a

something, a being, indescribable, appeared, disappeared, running with
CHAPTER PAGE 275

spirit-like swiftness, vanishing. Henri de Loubersac had a clear conviction

that during his conversation with her who might have been his fiancée in
days to come, they had been shadowed, spied upon!

XXVII

THE TWO VINSONS

There were strange happenings elsewhere on the day Henri de Loubersac

and Wilhelmine de Naarboveck had parted in grief and anger.

It was on the stroke of noon when Corporal Vinson heard a key turn in the
lock of his cell. Two military jailors confronted him.

"Butler?"

The traitor answered to that name.

Juve, for reasons of his own, had not revealed the prisoner's true quality.
Vinson had therefore been entered in the jail book as Butler.

One of the jailors, an old veteran, whose uniform was a mixture of the civil
and the military, took the word.

"Butler, you are to be transferred to a building belonging to the Council of

War: there you will occupy cell 27.... Our prison here is for the condemned
only, so you cannot remain. You belong to the accused section."

All that mattered to Butler-Vinson for the moment was--he had to reach his
new quarters by crossing the rue Cherche-Midi between two jailors.... He
would be exposed to the curious glances of the public! He shuddered at the
thought!... And there was worse to come! This was but the commencement
of his purgatory.... As he had not known how to die at the right moment, he
must arm himself with courage to expiate his cowardice!... He must leave
the shelter of his cell!... With an intense effort of will he stretched out his
arms, was handcuffed without a murmur, and, marching between his two
CHAPTER PAGE 276

jailors, he quitted the prison.

The bright light of noonday made him blink. On reaching the pavement he
recoiled with a convulsive movement: the jailors pulled him forward.

It was the crowded hour, when men leave offices and shops for a midday
meal. But the public of these parts, accustomed to such comings and goings
of prisoners and their jailors, paid no attention to this pitiful trio.

The prisoner seemed so overcome with emotion that, after uttering a long
sigh like a death rattle, he sank, a dead weight, into the arms of his jailors.

They were forced to support him. They carried him to the courtyard of the
Council of War. Some, whose curiosity was aroused by the unusual pallor
of the prisoner, wished to follow, but the jailors closed the great doors of
the courtyard.

Before leading him to his cell, they dumped their inanimate prisoner on a
chair in the porter's lodge.... The porter brought vinegar. They rubbed
Butler-Vinson's temples with it. A jailor slapped his hands. In vain! The
prisoner showed no signs of life!

"You had better take him to his cell," advised the porter. "Perhaps he will
come to his senses if laid on his palliasse? In any case, run for the medical
officer."

The jailors, who could make nothing of their prisoner's mysterious

condition, transported him to cell 27. They laid him on his palliasse.

*****

"Lieutenant Servin?"

"Commandant?"
CHAPTER PAGE 277

"Will you help me to reduce these papers to order? It is half-past eleven: I

want to go to breakfast!"

The lieutenant brought a pile of documents to his superior's table and

rapidly classified them.

His superior, Commandant Dumoulin, had been chief assistant at the

Second Bureau. He had passed long years at his post there. Previous to that,
he had acted as Government Commissioner on the Councils of War in the
various garrisons where he had been stationed.... Some six months ago
Dumoulin had sent in his request to the Minister of War for a change of
billet. His record being an excellent one, the Minister had appointed him
Government Chief-commissioner attached to the Principal Council of War,
sitting in Paris.

Dumoulin had recently taken up his new duties, and was counting on
getting peacefully into the run of things, when, the evening before, he had
been warned at his own home by a private note from the Minister, that a
deserter, accused of treason, had been arrested, and that Corporal Vinson
was the man in question.

At the sight of this name Commandant Dumoulin thrilled with excitement.

As former Under-Secretary at the Second Bureau he had the affair at his
finger ends, and well knew how tangled, how obscure it was, how bristling
with dangers, how rich in complications.... The Vinson affair, it was the
Captain Brocq affair, the singer Nichoune affair ... the story of a plan of
mobilisation stolen, of a gun piece lifted from the Arsenal!... He was in for
a big affair--a sensational case!...

The commandant passed a wakeful night and arrived early at his office. He
must get to work! Fortunately, among his deputies he had found a
competent and zealous helper in Lieutenant Servin. He turned to him now.

"Our next proceeding will be to establish the identity of Corporal Vinson.

We must examine him on that point without delay.... Send for him
immediately, Lieutenant!... According to the prison register, he occupies
CHAPTER PAGE 278

cell 26."

"Excuse me, Commandant; Vinson, who was registered this morning at the
Cherche-Midi prison, must actually be in the Council buildings, where he
occupied cell 27."

The commandant adjusted his eye-glasses, looked closely at a yellow

paper, and corrected in his turn:

"That is an error: in cell 27 is an individual named Butler."

"Yes, Commandant: Butler--he is Vinson!"

"I do not understand," objected Dumoulin. "You must have made a

mistake. Corporal Vinson was arrested yesterday at the Saint Lazare
station: he was brought here and was registered for cell 26; besides, I was
immediately informed of this arrest by a private telegram."

"Commandant," persisted the lieutenant: "Corporal Vinson, who hid

himself under the name of Butler, was arrested early this morning at the
Calais station, when he landed from England. The arrest was effected by
Inspector Juve, who took his prisoner to Cherche-Midi about six o'clock;
and this Vinson occupied cell 27."

"Come, now, Lieutenant, you have lost your head!" grumbled the
commandant: "Since Vinson was arrested yesterday at the Saint Lazare
station, it is evident that he was not arrested last night at Calais! Vinson and
Butler--that makes two."

"I beg your pardon, Commandant: that makes only one!"

The commandant looked severely at his subordinate.

"That is enough, Lieutenant!... Send for Corporal Vinson who occupied cell
26."
CHAPTER PAGE 279

"Right, Commandant!"

Some minutes later there was a knock at the door: two warders with a
prisoner stood on the threshold.

The commandant assured himself with a glance that the non-commissioned

officer, acting as reporter, was at his post, and that Lieutenant Servin was
seated at the desk next his own.

"Enter!" he commanded.

Dumoulin solemnly opened the voluminous bundle of papers set before

him, looked through the documents, affecting not to see the prisoner
stationed before him.... Ready at length to begin the interrogation, the
commandant raised his head, straightened himself, and ordered:

"Approach!"

The prisoner, a warder on each side of him, took a step forward.

"You are truly Corporal Vinson?"

"No, Commandant!"

Dumoulin was silent a moment, choking with anger, his hand trembling
slightly--did the fellow mean to mock him?... He frowned. He did not like
the manner of this fellow, with his bright, piercing eyes, his scornful looks.
He repeated:

"Are you Corporal Vinson?"

"No, Commandant."

Dumoulin was boiling with rage: he was about to explode. Lieutenant

Servin approached: in a low voice he said:
CHAPTER PAGE 280

"Commandant! Someone wishes you to see him immediately."

Servin handed his superior a card. On it the commandant read:

Inspector Juve, Detective Force, Police Headquarters.

"What does he want?"

"He is the detective who arrested Vinson."

"Well," exclaimed the exasperated Dumoulin, "he arrives at the right

moment! Let him come in!"

Juve entered and saluted Dumoulin with an amiable smile. He did not take
any notice of the prisoner, who was standing with his back to the light.

"It is I, Commandant, who arrested Corporal Vinson; consequently, I have

come to place myself at your disposal."

"You have done the right thing!" cried Dumoulin. "Now, will you get this
prisoner to own up? Make him tell us whether or no he is Corporal
Vinson!"

Dumoulin pointed an irate finger at the prisoner.

Our detective stood rooted to the ground!... The prisoner moved quickly
towards him.

"Fandor!"

"Juve!"

"What does this mean, Fandor?"

"It means, Juve, that I am arrested in the place of Corporal Vinson!"

CHAPTER PAGE 281

"Nothing of the sort!... I arrive from London. I arrested Vinson yesterday

evening at Calais!"

Fandor laughed: he could have roared with laughter.

"My dear Juve," said he, "I should have to talk to you for two mortal hours
before you would understand a word of this business!"

Fandor turned to the thunderstruck Dumoulin, and said in a voice of the

most exquisite politeness:

"Commandant, I must state once for all that I am not Corporal Vinson!... I
am a journalist, whom you perhaps know by name: Jérôme Fandor, on the
staff of La Capitale.... If you see me in this uniform, this disguise, that
relates to a series of events, details of which I will give you with pleasure,
as soon as I have reduced my own ideas to order.... As things stand, I am
fortunate in meeting my friend Juve, who, if you desire it, will confirm the
truth of my statement."

Dumoulin, more and more nonplussed, started in turn at the detective, at the
journalist, at his reporter.... With face red as a boiled lobster, he turned to
Lieutenant Servin....

When this farcical scene began, Servin had gone into his own office, and
had given his secretary an order. The secretary had just returned. The
lieutenant, having recorded the answer brought him, had just that moment
returned to the commandant's office.

Lieutenant Servin looked upset.

"Commandant!" he gasped out.

He turned to our detective.

"Monsieur Juve!"
CHAPTER PAGE 282

He continued staring first at one man, then at the other.

"An incredible thing has happened!... I have just heard of it!... I had given
the order to have Corporal Vinson brought here immediately--the real
Corporal Vinson--he whom Monsieur Juve arrested under the name of
Butler: well, Commandant, it appears that on entering his cell they found
him--dead!"

"What is that you say?" asked Dumoulin and Juve together.

"I say that he is dead," repeated the lieutenant.

"But how?" questioned Juve.

The lieutenant made a sign to the sergeant in charge.

"Go for the medical officer."

Some minutes passed in a silence that hummed with questions.

A young assistant surgeon appeared.

"Kindly explain what is wrong, Monsieur!" commanded Dumoulin.

The surgeon spoke.

"My commandant sent for me, about an hour ago. I was to attend to a
prisoner who had fainted. This man, when crossing the rue du
Cherche-Midi, had suddenly lost consciousness. His warders could not
revive him. They carried him to his cell. They laid him on his palliasse.
When I arrived the man was dead."

"Dead of what?" demanded Dumoulin.

"A bullet in his heart," replied the surgeon.... "I ascertained this when
undressing him. The bullet will be found at the post-mortem: it has
CHAPTER PAGE 283

probably lodged in the vertebral column."

Dumoulin rose: paced the floor: he was greatly agitated.

"Oh, come, come!" he cried. "People are not killed like that in the open
street!... It is unheard of! Unbelievable!... A bullet presupposes a
revolver--a weapon of percussion of some description--a detonation!...
There is a noise, a sound!"

Dumoulin went up to the young surgeon. There was a note of suspicious

contempt in his question:

"Are you quite sure of what you say?"

"I am quite sure, Commandant."

During this discussion Juve had approached Fandor. When the surgeon
made his statement, Juve murmured in Fandor's ear:

"Vinson shot through the heart by a bullet!... Like Captain Brocq!... Killed
undoubtedly by a noiseless weapon ... when crossing the street!... Here,
again, is--Fantômas!"

Things calmed down somewhat. Fandor addressed Dumoulin:

"Excuse me, Commandant, for having troubled you. I should be most

grateful if you would set me at liberty. One tragedy follows hard on
another! It is phenomenal!... I shall have to."...

Commandant Dumoulin burst out:

"By Heaven!" he shouted, thumping the table with his fist: "You are the
limit!... The take-the-cake limit!... You flout me! You practise on my
credulity!... Now you would steal a march on me! Try it on--will you?...
Ah! You are not Corporal Vinson!... No?... You are a journalist!... You
have got to prove that!... Even if you do prove it, you have got yourself into
CHAPTER PAGE 284

a pretty pickle by your fooling, by making a laughing-stock of the entire

army in your own preposterous person--by assuming that uniform!...

"Guards!" shouted Dumoulin. "Take this man back to his cell! Be sharp
about it!... Double his guard!"

Fandor was not allowed time to protest: he was marched off at the double.

Juve tried to get in a word of explanation.

"I assure you, Commandant, it is certainly Jérôme Fandor you are deal----"

"You!" yelled the commandant. "Get out! Foot it!... Leave me in peace,
can't you!... Out with you, or I'll know the reason why!... Begone!"...

Dumoulin was apoplectic with rage.

XXVIII

AT "THE CRYING CALF"

"What's your drink?"

"What's your offer?"

Hogshead Geoffrey, also nicknamed "The Barrel," thumped the table with a
formidable fist, at the risk of upsetting a pile of saucers, which, at this
advanced hour of the evening, showed clearly how he had spent the hours
passed in the wine-shop.

"What do I offer?" he retorted. "I offer what's wanted. I don't haggle. When
I ask a fellow: 'Old man, what do you want to wet your gullet?' that means:
'Choose.' There now!"

Hogshead Geoffrey's companion merely said:

CHAPTER PAGE 285

"Pass the programme!"

Once in possession of the wine-list--if such could be called the crumpled,

dirty paper on which the owner of the house had scribbled in pencil the
fresh drinks, composed of indescribable mixtures specially recommended
to his clients--the guest of Hogshead Geoffrey became absorbed in the list
of strange beverages.

So mean-looking an individual was this guest that he had been nicknamed

"The Scrub." He also answered to the more aristocratic title of "Sacristan."
Once he had been sacristan at the church of Saint-Sulpice, but intemperate
habits had led to his dismissal. What odd link there was between this sorry
little fellow and the robust Geoffrey?[7]

[Footnote 7: See Fantômas: vol. i, Fantômas Series]

The Scrub ordered: "A thick 'un--jolly thick!" He eyed his host.

"What's been your lay? I haven't clapped eyes on you for days!"

Hogshead Geoffrey emptied his glass at one go. Leaning his head against
the wall, his fists on the table, his legs stretched out, he stared at the ceiling.

The atmosphere of this den in the rue Monge was poisonous with the
odours of stale wine and rank tobacco. The musty air was thick, the shop
was ill-lighted by one jet of gas in the centre of the room.

"Well, old Scrub," said Geoffrey at last. "You haven't seen me because you
haven't!... You remember I passed the Markets' test and was nominated
market porter?"

"Jolly well I do!... We had a famous drinking bout that time!"

"That's so, Scrub!... And my sister Bobinette paid the piper!... You
remember I was rejected?... Well, I got into the Markets all the same!...
Then--one fine day I gave a tallykeeper a regular knock-down-and-outer!"
CHAPTER PAGE 286

"You did?"

"Just didn't I?... I gave him such a oner--just like this!"...

Lifting his enormous hairy fist, Hogshead Geoffrey brought it down on the
table with disastrous results: the ancient worm-eaten board was split from
end to end!

Flattering remarks were showered on this colossus from all sides.

"Ho! ho! Nothing can resist me!" shouted Hogshead Geoffrey.... "Give me
anything you choose!... Every table in the room! No matter what! I'll break
it in two--man or woman! Wood or stone!... It's all one to me!"

True or not, Hogshead Geoffrey, when not too much in liquor, was a gentle
soul, a simple, kind creature; quick-tempered, kind-hearted. Liable to
sudden gusts of anger, he was equally capable of knocking the life out of a
comrade with his gigantic fist or of comforting some sniveling street urchin
crossing his path.

Well did the Scrub know it. He too was a contradictory mixture. This mean
little human specimen had been newsboy, seller of post cards, opener of
cab doors, Jack of any little trade, the companion of pickpockets and other
light-fingered gentry, also adored the good manners of bygone vestry days,
the polished phrases, the benedictory gestures!

When in hospital, chance had given him Hogshead Geoffrey for

bed-neighbour. It did not take him long to realise that he would be the
gainer by a friendship with this kindly giant: it would be a partnership of
brain and muscle.... The Scrub commanded: Geoffrey executed.

When the admiration for his prowess had died down, Hogshead Geoffrey
continued his story:

"When I had given the chief the knock-out, the next day they gave me the
order of the boot, if you would believe me!... I was properly down and out!
CHAPTER PAGE 287

I hadn't saved a sou--was in debt right and left, to the wine-shops--was all
but run in!"...

"What did you do?" enquired the Scrub.

"Bobinette helped me."

"Your sister?"

"Oh, she's a sharp one!... She's studied, too!... She did the bandages at
Lariboise!... She had the sous!... I told her my troubles!... She let me have
the dibs, so I could hang on!"

"Until you got a billet at The Big Tun?"

"No!... Bobine said: 'Here's gold, little brother! It's all I have ... don't come
for more!... You must find a way out of the mess!'"

"And you did?... How?"

Hogshead Geoffrey hesitated: he sipped his absinthe.

"Oh ... well ... I found a way out."...

"How? I ask you."...

"I tell you I managed all right! And then I got my job at The Big Tun."

"Where you are now?"

"Where I am."

"You paid back your sister?"

Hogshead Geoffrey roared with laughter.

CHAPTER PAGE 288

"I paid her back so little that I didn't know what had become of her!... She
had turned her back on Lariboise without leaving an address.... Thought she
must have kicked the bucket!... I would have been sorry for that!... She's a
good sort!... But yesterday I had word from her.... Bobinette asked me to
meet her."...

"You told her to come here?"

"Sure!"

"And how did she know your address?"

Hogshead Geoffrey scratched his big head.

"Lordy! I don't know!... Probably she saw my name quoted the other day in
the Petit Journal, among the conquerors in the Who's Strongest
Competition. She wrote putting the number of my old shanty, rue de la
Harpe!... No good being astonished at what she does!... I tell you she has
education--she has!"...

It was half an hour after midnight. The owner of The Crying Calf shouted
in a stentorian voice:

"Now, boys! It's only seven sous drinks now!"

It was the accustomed warning, taken as a matter of course.

Protesting in a squeaky voice that his constitution was weakly, that his
doctor had ordered him not to sit up late, the Scrub, who feared a meeting
with Bobinette, knowing she had little liking for him, now took himself off.

Geoffrey ordered two drinks. He was bored. Bobinette was behind her
promised time. He would have left, but Bobinette would pay for his
drinks--a nice little total!

At last she appeared: an out-of-breath Bobinette, and somewhat flustered.

CHAPTER PAGE 289

She was quietly dressed--almost shabby. This was no place for one of the
elegant toilettes affected by Mademoiselle de Naarboveck's companion!...
After her Rouen journey, after her meeting with Lieutenant de Loubersac in
the train, she had thought it wiser not to go back to the baron's house. She
had written to say she was ill. Then she had taken refuge in a quiet little inn
in la Chapelle neighbourhood, there to await events.

Vagualame's arrest had made a terrible impression on her.... Vagualame

had not betrayed her; but she sensed snares, pitfalls all about her: she might
be trapped any minute: she must disappear! After Vagualame's arrest she
had had but one idea: to get rid of the gun piece, hand it to the foreign
power, and receive the promised reward.... When, instead of Corporal
Vinson, whom she had summoned in accordance with her orders, she had
perceived Fandor, she was puzzled, suspicious.

If Bobinette went to the meeting place in her own undisguised person, and
met Fandor as Fandor, it was because she had had the same idea as the
journalist.

"I will walk through the arcades as Bobinette, and I shall see if Corporal
Vinson is there, or if, by chance, he is not alone!"

That same day at Rouen she had had a bad shock. The telegram she had
received at the garage was from Vagualame!... How could an arrested
Vagualame send her a telegram, and such a telegram?

This telegram, in their usual cypher, informed her that at all costs, and at
once, she must separate herself from Corporal Vinson, who was not the real
Vinson, but a counter-spy!... Bobinette all but fainted from fright.... She
must escape from this counter-spy!... Yet, owing to the false Vinson's
insistence, she had been forced to share his room!... He did not mean to let
her out of his sight, that was plain!...

No sooner had the false Vinson gone down to the car in the morning than
Bobinette had slipped off, hot foot for Rouen. The gun piece was left
behind! The chauffeur would bear the brunt of that, thought Bobinette, as
CHAPTER PAGE 290

she sped on her way. Later, she read of his arrest and release.

Her meeting with Lieutenant de Loubersac and the sight of the false
Vinson's arrest at the Saint Lazare station showed the terrified girl that
things had gone mysteriously, hopelessly wrong!...

Without resources, Bobinette had pawned her few jewels. Then a letter
from Vagualame had reached her. She had obeyed the instructions it
contained.... That he had learned her address did not surprise her: she knew
he never lost track of those it was to his interest to keep an eye on.

Before Vagualame's note reached her she had been worried and bored.

"I must make sure of shelter and protection if needs be," she reflected: "I
will look up Geoffrey. We will meet at The Crying Calf, it is safe there!"

"Sit you down here, little Bobine!" suggested Hogshead Geoffrey.... "And
now, what will you take?"

Bobinette ordered a gooseberry syrup.

"Quite the lady's drink," remarked mine host of the wine-shop with a
humorous air.

Brother and sister exchanged confidences.... The good Geoffrey told of his
fight, of situations obtained and lost, of fisticuff encounters, of quarrels and
blows.... Bobinette went so far as to say that she was very happy, very
much at her ease.

"Just imagine," said she: "I am companion to an old lady, a Russian, who in
her time has had trouble with the police of her country, I think."

"The police? I don't like the police!" interrupted her brother.

"Who does?" ejaculated Bobinette. "Lots of people come to her house. I go

to all the dinners, all the parties!"
CHAPTER PAGE 291

"Ah, then, you'll foot the bill, Bobine, if you have such a rich situation?"

"I will pay, Geoffrey," said Bobinette: "This old lady, I think."... Bobinette
stopped. She went white as a sheet.... An old man had just entered the
wine-shop. His steps were uncertain, his back was bent under the weight of
an old accordion.

It was Vagualame....

XXIX

I AM TROKOFF

Bobinette's astonishment was so evident that Hogshead Geoffrey, whose

powers of observation were small, was struck by his sister's expression.

"You know that old fellow?" he asked. "If he bothers you you've but to pass
the word, you know, and I'll soon put him on the other side of the door!"

This amiable offer terrified the girl. She felt sure Vagualame was not at The
Crying Calf by chance. He had probably followed her--wished to have a
word with her.... She must fall in with his wishes. She must cut short this
interview with her brother. After all, it was only to pass the time she had
come.

"Keep quiet, Geoffrey," she said: "I do not know the old boy, and you
deceive yourself if you think he annoys me!... Besides, my dear Geoffrey, I
must be off!"

"Be off!... Whatever's come to you, Bobine?"

"I have business on hand elsewhere.... And now that I know you are quite
well, Geoffrey, I shall continue my walk."

"True?" protested the bewildered giant: "You're going to cut your stick
already?"
CHAPTER PAGE 292

"Call the governor!... There's a twenty-franc piece for you! Pay for your
drinks and keep the rest," was Bobinette's effective reply.

Hogshead calmed down at once.

"As long as you pay up, Bobine, I've nothing to say; but, all the same, you
have queer ideas.... You bring me here to keep an appointment, and then,
we're not five minutes together, when up you get on the trot again!"

Bobinette caught her brother's huge fist in a quick handshake, made for the
door of The Crying Calf, turned out of rue Monge at a slow pace,
convinced that Vagualame would join her.

The street was deserted. Bobinette kept in the shadow, avoiding the bright
patches cast on the silent roadway from the wine-shops and taverns still
open and alight.

She had been walking about five minutes when she felt that someone was
walking behind her, hastening to overtake her.... A hand was laid on her
shoulder: Vagualame was beside her, regulating his steps by hers.

"Is that species of giant your brother?" he asked.

Bobinette nodded.

"You are free, then?" she asked, breathing hard.

"It looks like it!"

"Who released you?"

"Let us hurry!" said Vagualame: "Let us seek shelter."

"Where?"

"You will see--with friends."

CHAPTER PAGE 293

What did it matter to Bobinette where they were going while strange doubts
and horrid fears filled her mind?

"Who released you?"

They were passing beneath a street lamp. Vagualame noted that Bobinette
was regarding him with defiant eyes. Was this really Vagualame? Was he
an impostor?

Vagualame read her thoughts.

"Bobinette, you are nothing but a fool!" announced the old accordion
player: "The man arrested at your place was a detective, who had got
himself up like me to take you in!... You let him trick you! You are an
imbecile!"

Bobinette stopped.

"But then ... if a detective made himself up to resemble you, it means they
know you are guilty! It means they are after you! Why, it's a mad thing you
are doing, coming to meet me in that rig out! Why have you not disguised
yourself?"

Vagualame smiled.

"Possibly I have reason for it, a plan you know nothing about, Bobinette!...
But, let us return to the false Vagualame. How was it you did not detect the
fraud, if only by the voice?... How is it you have not guessed the truth
since?... When you received my telegram at Rouen it should have been as
clear as daylight to you!... Eh!"

Bobinette kept silence.

"Well, we will not dwell on the past," declared Vagualame, with an air of
magnanimity: "Fortunately your extraordinary simplicity has not had any
particular consequences--save the stupid way you let them get hold of the
CHAPTER PAGE 294

gun piece, and allowed the false Corporal Vinson to escape!"... In a

menacing tone he said: "We will return to that question later."

"But," faltered Bobinette: "How could I act otherwise?"

Vagualame threw her such a look, a look so charged with fierce contempt
that she could no longer doubt that she was face to face with her master.
This master would not allow argument, discussion: well she knew that!

She screwed up her courage to ask:

"How did you learn my address?"

"That is my business!" he declared: "What I want to know I get to

know--you must have seen that by this time!"

"How is it, then, you called at The Crying Calf to-day?... Geoffrey did not
know you: he alone knew I was coming to see him!... You followed me?"

"Suppose I did follow you?"... Vagualame's tone changed: it became

imperious.

"Have you quite finished asking me silly questions?... I consider it is my

turn to put a question or two to you--What are you doing?"

Bobinette bent her head.

"You have a right to know," she murmured: "When you sent me that letter,
after I took refuge in La Chapelle, telling me to go to the house of a
Madame Olga Dimitroff and present myself for the post of companion, I
went. She engaged me. I am still with her."

"To take refuge in an hotel was an idiotic thing to do, Bobinette.... The
police could easily have nabbed you there if they had had a mind to. That is
why I sent you to one of my old friends--to a person to whom I could
recommend you!... Well, Bobinette, you will have to leave that house!"
CHAPTER PAGE 295

The young woman bent her head, mastered, ready to accept any orders of
Vagualame's before they were issued. All she asked, in a timid voice, was:
"Where am I to go then?"

"Far from here."

"Why?"

Vagualame's smile was evil. His reply was like a series of sword thrusts.

"Because Juve has good eyes; because Fandor also begins to see clear....
The net begins to tighten.... I shall find means to slip through it!... I am not
of those who are caught like a mouse in a trap.... But, as for you--you with
your simplicity--it is high time to put you out of reach of the police!... I am
going to give you some money. Five days hence, disguised as a gipsy, you
are to be on the road from Sceaux to Versailles, at eleven o'clock at night,
by the first milestone on the left side after the aeroplane garage.... You have
followed me?"

Bobinette was trembling.

"Disguised as a gipsy, Vagualame? Why?"

"That is no concern of yours!... You have only to do as I tell you. I give

orders, but not explanations!"

Vagualame felt in his pockets. He held out a note-book.

"You will find two fifty-franc notes in this. It is more than you need for a
suitable disguise. I will give you more money when you start off, because I
am going to send you to a foreign country."

Whilst talking, Vagualame and Bobinette had gone a long way from The
Crying Calf. By a labyrinth of little streets, all darkness and mystery,
Vagualame had led his companion to a kind of blind alley: a tall house
blocked the end of it. A large shop on the ground floor occupied half the
CHAPTER PAGE 296

front of it. Although the iron shutters had been drawn down, light from the
interior penetrated through apertures to the street--thin rays of light.

Vagualame laid a brutal hand on Bobinette.

"Attend to what I say: it is no joking matter. You are coming in with me. I
am going to introduce you to my many friends here, whom I have recently
got to know: they may say things that will astonish you, but do not show
surprise.... I bring you here that you may know where to find me during the
five days you remain in Paris.... You have only to write a letter and bring it
to the woman who keeps this library. Address to Vagualame: it will reach
me."

"Yes," replied Bobinette.

Vagualame knocked three separate times, then twice quickly, on the iron
shutters. A key turned in the lock: the door opened. Vagualame thrust
Bobinette across the threshold. Out of the obscurity of the streets whipped
by an icy wind and torrents of rain, Bobinette found herself in a brilliantly
lighted book-shop.

She stood dazzled.

A young woman came forward.

"Good evening, Sophie," said Vagualame: "Anything new?"

"Nothing new, Vagualame!"

Bobinette looked about her. She saw piles of books and collections of
magazines and papers. The shop was crowded with them.

"Sophie, I bring a new friend--a sure friend--who may have to bring you a
letter for me one of these days," said Vagualame.

The proprietress looked curiously at Bobinette. All she said was:

CHAPTER PAGE 297

"Have our brothers been warned, Vagualame?"

"They have not been told yet; but I shall present my friend to them at the
first opportunity."

There was loud knocking at the shutters! Voices were heard shouting:

"Open! Open! Open! The police!"

Bobinette grew ashen with terror.

"It is all up!" thought the desperate girl: "They will see Vagualame is free!
They will find me with him! We are caught!"

She turned frantically to Vagualame. He stood calm and collected.

"Ah!" said he with a touch of raillery, looking at the proprietress: "They

have been warned that you are again breaking the work law!"

Shaking a threatening finger at the rigid Sophie, Vagualame went to the

shop entrance. He looked through the large keyhole to see who was
demanding admittance at this late hour.... A look, and Vagualame turned,
caught Sophie by the arm, and whispered:

"Detective Juve!... Inspector Michel!... Keep cool, Sophie! They cannot

know all the ins and outs of your place."

Two strides and Vagualame joined Bobinette. He dragged her to the end of
the shop, reached a corner, turned it, and they were standing on boards clear
of books: it was hidden from the main part of the shop and from the
entrance.

"Draw your skirts between your legs!" he commanded. "Don't utter a

sound!... Don't be afraid!"

*****
CHAPTER PAGE 298

Vagualame was right. The police had surrounded the mysterious shop.

Noiselessly, gliding past the houses like shadows, revolver in hand, dark
lantern at waist, fifteen detectives in plain clothes had converged on the tall
house in the blind alley.

Juve was speaking low.

"Careful, Michel! We have seen our birds enter. They are inside.... I shall
follow them!... Meanwhile, do not stir from this door.... There is no other
issue.... Do not allow a soul to pass--not one!"

"Never fear, Juve!"

Information dropped by Corporal Vinson, who had been taken to The

Crying Calf by Vagualame, more than once had caused Juve to keep a strict
watch on the wine-shop for some days. He had seen first Bobinette and
then Vagualame enter the place.... When Bobinette came out, almost
immediately, he felt sure she had not had time for a talk with Vagualame....
When Vagualame soon followed, Juve had shadowed the old accordion
player in the darkness: behind him followed his men on the trail of both.

When he saw Vagualame and Bobinette enter the library he exclaimed, in

thought:

"I have them!... I know the house! I am going to arrest Fantômas and his
accomplice!"

Cool as a cucumber now that the decisive, ardently-longed-for moment was

at hand, Juve repeated his instructions: he did not mean to leave anything to
chance.

"You understand then, Michel, not one single person is to leave these
premises. Even I can only be permitted to pass when I say to you: 'It is I,
Juve, ... Let me pass!' You thoroughly understand?"
CHAPTER PAGE 299

"Perfectly," replied Michel.

Juve turned to his four picked men:

"Gentlemen! Are you ready?"

Revolver in one hand, lantern in the other, Juve knocked loudly on the
shuttered shop door.

"In the name of the law! Open! Open! Open!... The police!"

A bare three minutes had elapsed between Juve's first summons and the
opening of the library door.

Vagualame had made profitable use of the three minutes.

"Don't utter a sound! Don't be afraid!" Vagualame had repeated to

Bobinette: "They will not take us this time!"

Hustled, dragged to the spot already described, Bobinette now felt the
ground giving way beneath her. She rolled on to a steeply inclined plane.
Gliding down into the void, clutching Vagualame, she heard a dull sound: it
was the trap falling to.

"Quiet!" repeated Vagualame, as Bobinette rolled on to the wood flooring

of a sort of cellar piled high with books. He signed to the girl to listen.

"Yes! They are searching the shop, knocking the books about, imagining
we are hidden among them!... But, from what I know of Juve, in a very
short time he will have ferreted out the trap door and will descend as we
have done. He will never be such a fool as to think we have gone down the
shop stairs."

"Oh!" groaned Bobinette: "Whatever shall we do?"

CHAPTER PAGE 300

Vagualame calmly turned on his pocket electric torch, approached an

immense pile of illustrated magazines stacked in a corner. He struck three
blows on it, saying in a low clear voice:

"Open! Open to brothers!"

Bobinette, frightened past speech, saw the immense pile of volumes

oscillate, then noiselessly divide, disclosing a secret door.

Vagualame pulled her towards it, saying in a joking tone:

"You see how useful it is to have friends of all sorts! Your employer, Olga
Damitroff, was well advised when she once told me when and where the
Nihilists gather together in Paris to plot against the Czar!"

Vagualame brought her into a large room, lit by torches, where a score of
young men were assembled. They rose and reverently saluted Vagualame,
who approached them with outstretched hand.

When Juve entered, he soon satisfied himself that only Sophie remained in
the library. He gave orders to keep strict guard over the proprietress,
notwithstanding her loud protestations.

"Do not permit anyone to leave the premises," he repeated to the men
stationed at the door--"except myself, of course."

He turned to others.

"Move all these volumes! There may be a hide-hole concealed behind

them.... Keep guard at the top of the little staircase. It is the only way of
escape ... I am going to make a tour of the cellars and expect to run my
game to earth by this staircase."...

Sophie again protested.

CHAPTER PAGE 301

"There is nothing in my cellars that ought not to be there! I don't understand

what the police want here!"

Juve paid no attention to these protestations. He went towards the corner at

the farther end of the shop.

Juve knew all the dens in Paris; there was not a secret society he did not
know of--societies, political and otherwise, holding mysterious meetings in
these places: he knew of the existence of this trap-door and slide which led
to the cellars below this library.

"We will go down to the Nihilists," said he.

Before the interested eyes of his subordinates, Juve set the trap in motion.
A counter weight closed it over his head.

Juve rolled into the cellar but a few seconds after Vagualame and Bobinette
had escaped from it!... To tell the truth, Juve did not know of the hidden
entrance to the secret room. Dizzy from his rapid glide downwards, Juve
raised his lantern. He was not surprised to find this retreat empty. He knew
the slide led to second and lower series of cellars....

His eye caught a movement. The huge stack of magazines, looking as if it

would topple over, so much on the slant was it, was slowly moving into an
upright position again! He leaped forward, thrusting his revolver between
the opening of the two portions, and prevented them from joining
completely!...

What was going on behind this tricky collection of magazines, which had
undoubtedly just opened to give passage to Vagualame and Bobinette?

Juve glued his ear to the fissure which marked the edge of the hidden
door.... Ah!... Voices of men in discussion!... Juve could not distinguish all
that the voices were saying, but a word reached his ear, clear,
unmistakable--Fantômas!
CHAPTER PAGE 302

He listened intently.

"You are right," remarked an invisible speaker: "It is to Fantômas we owe

all these police visits and annoyances--his crimes exasperate the
police--and to justify themselves in the opinion of the public they track us
down more vigorously than ever!"

Another voice answered:

"I know for certain that these coppers are after Fantômas to-night!"

Shouts and hoots resounded.

Menacing voices repeated:

"Since Fantômas is indirectly our persecutor, let us avenge ourselves on

Fantômas!... What matters one life compared with the cause we defend--the
cause of a whole people!... If Fantômas is in our way, troubles us, let us kill
him!... Trokoff will be here to-morrow, this evening perhaps! Trokoff will
guide us! Trokoff will find this mysterious bandit who does us so much
harm! Trokoff is a valiant man!... We do not know him, but we know what
he has done!"

Juve smiled a sardonic smile. He thrust his hand into the opening wedged
apart by his revolver, widened the space, opened the secret door, and
entered the assembly room of the Nihilists.

"God save Russia!"

Juve pronounced these words with unction, in a solemn voice.

"God save Poland," was the reply. The oldest man present, who had thus
been spokesman for the assembly advanced towards the stranger.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

CHAPTER PAGE 303

Without the quiver of an eyelid, an eyelash, Juve answered: "I am he whom

you have awaited.... He who will direct your arms--guide you! I am
Trokoff!"

"Let but one of these inspired fanatics, who hold life cheap, guess that I
belong to the police, and they would kill me without mercy or pity,"
thought Juve, as he faced the assembly of revolutionaries with a serene
countenance.

There were no threatening looks. They believed themselves to be in the

presence of Trokoff. Had he not opened the door?... Only Trokoff, the
expected, the longed for, could have done that!

The assembly acclaimed him:

"Trokoff! We for Russia welcome you! God be with you, Trokoff! Heaven
guard you!"

"God be with you, brothers!"

Juve advanced, scrutinising each in turn: neither Vagualame nor Bobinette

were among them.

Juve addressed them:

"My brothers! You know that the police are now searching the shop
overhead: it is a serious moment!"

One of the Nihilists stepped forward.

"We know it, Trokoff! Our brother, Vagualame, accompanied by a young

disciple, came to warn us but a minute ago. Be assured, brother! The police
are not searching for us this evening.... It is the vile wretch Fantômas they
are after!... A criminal ruffian, foe of all liberty, whom we have condemned
to death.... Therefore we are not disquieted. Vagualame has just left us....
He will direct the suspicions of the police into another channel. He told us
CHAPTER PAGE 304

he knew a way of quieting their suspicions."...

"If only Michel does not allow this arch-bandit to slip through his fingers!"
reflected Juve, as he listened with unmoved countenance to these
remarkable statements. Before the Nihilist could say more, Juve made a
declaration:

"Vagualame deceives himself, brother. I must go up at once to give him the

aid of my strong arm, otherwise we are finished!... I know only the secret
entrance here: guide me to the other exit, so that I may not attract the
attention of the police: we do not want our secret entrance discovered!"

"It shall be as you desire, brother. Follow me; but be prudent."

Marching at the Nihilist's heels, after many twists and turns, Juve arrived at
the foot of a quite ordinary staircase.

"You have only to mount, brother Trokoff. These stairs lead straight into
the shop. If the police ask where you come from, you have only to say that
you were looking in the first cellar for a book!... But what matters it if they
do visit the cellars! They will never find the hidden door!"

Juve bent his head.

"Thanks, brother! Peace be with you!"

The Nihilist turned away. No sooner was he out of sight than Juve tore up
the stairs to complete the arrest of Vagualame and Bobinette!

Inspector Michel had not stirred from his appointed place by the door
leading to the street.

He had been on guard about half an hour when Juve, livid, frantic, rushed
towards him.

"You have let them go out, Michel!" he shouted: "They are not here!"
CHAPTER PAGE 305

"No one has gone out at this door, Chief! I give you my word on it!... But,
may I ask how you managed to slip back again without my having noticed
you! Deuced clever, I call it!... No one, I say, has left these premises either
before or after you!"

"What's that you say?" Juve stared at Michel as if he had taken leave of his
senses.

"What I say, Chief, is--the only individuals whom I have allowed to pass
out are you and your woman prisoner."

"I and my woman prisoner?" Juve could have howled with rage. He caught
the calm, collected Michel by the coat collar, and dragged him outside the
shop. Juve looked so desperate, so at his wit's end, that Michel wondered.

"Come now, Chief!" he remonstrated; "I am not dreaming, am I?... Ten

minutes ago you came to me here, and you said:

"'Don't move, Michel! Let me pass. I am Juve! I take a prisoner to the

station and will return.'"

Juve had grown deadly calm.

"I was disguised, Michel, was I not?"

"Yes. You had put on your Vagualame disguise."

Juve bit his lip till the blood came. That arch-bandit had done him again!
Juve could not but admire his coolness and resource. He had known how to
take in Michel, because Michel had arrested Juve when disguised as
Vagualame at de Naarboveck's house.... Michel would naturally think his
chief had again assumed the Vagualame disguise for a purpose! Oh, it was
the devil's own cleverness!

Juve glared at Michel.

CHAPTER PAGE 306

"It was the real Vagualame, I tell you!" shouted Juve.... "It was not I
disguised as Vagualame!... It was Vagualame in person, I tell you!... It is
Vagualame himself whom you have allowed to escape!"

There was a pause--terrible, heart-sickening.

Michel drew himself up.

"What then, Chief?"

Juve's anger gave place to compassion.

"It is really not your fault, my poor Michel. How could you imagine the
infernal trick this bandit was playing on you?... I bear you no grudge for it,
Michel!"

But Michel was inconsolable. He had committed an irreparable blunder!

Juve slipped his arm through that of his miserable subordinate. The pair
made their way to Headquarters at the head of the little column of
subordinates who, understanding that Juve had not found what he sought,
were cursing inwardly at the failure of their expedition....

The moment Juve realised that Michel had allowed Vagualame-Fantômas

to escape, he had called off his men. He did not wish the Russian
revolutionaries cornered and arrested at present.... Possibly Vagualame
believed Juve and his men had come to find the Nihilists, and, having
failed, had left the premises in a rage!

Sophie would report to the bandit--but she had not heard everything!
Thought Juve:

"He will hardly guess that I entered the assembly below by the secret door
and made them believe I was Trokoff!... It leaves a way open for future
transactions!... Some day, not so far ahead, I may return, may find that
devil's Will o' the Wisp of a bandit there and nab him at last!"... Did Michel
CHAPTER PAGE 307

suspect there were Nihilists on the premises?

"Tell me," questioned Juve: "Did you overhear any suspicious talk?... This
Sophie did not say anything interesting?"

"Nothing whatever, Chief."

"Your men, Michel, do not know what individual we are after?"

Michel laughed.

"Oh, they are a hundred leagues off the truth!... That they were out to arrest
Fantômas!... Just imagine, Chief! This afternoon, a complaint was lodged at
Headquarters with reference to the theft of a bear! The theft was committed
at Troyes, at the fair.... Our men are persuaded that to-night's search has to
do with this bear-stealing case!... All the more so because, just as we started
on this expedition, one of my men, whose home is at Sceaux, told us that
his brother, a driver down there, had been ordered to go in five days' time,
with two horses, and at five in the morning, on the road to Robinson, and
take a gipsy van twenty kilometres from there!... He thought there was
something very queer about such a rendezvous as that!"

Juve's interest in this piece of news was keen!

XXX

APPALLING ACCUSATIONS

"But, Commandant, you cannot possibly maintain that I am not Jérôme

Fandor, journalist!"

The interview between Commandant Dumoulin and Fandor had already

lasted an hour. It was unlike that which had taken place six days before,
when Dumoulin had dealt summarily with the Fandor-Vinson case. Since
then Fandor had occupied cell 27, and had had no communication with the
outside world. Fandor had raged furiously against things in general, against
CHAPTER PAGE 308

Dumoulin in particular, and against himself most of all. He acknowledged

that Juve had done his utmost to extricate him from the tangled web he had
involved himself in as Fandor-Vinson.

Each day brought him one distraction which he would willingly have
foregone: he passed long exhausting hours in Commandant Dumoulin's
office. He found the commandant detestable. Dumoulin was hot-blooded,
noisy, unmethodical, always in a state of fuss and fume! He would begin
his interrogations calmly, would weigh his words, would be logical, but
little by little, his real nature--a tempestuous one--would get the upper
hand.

For the twentieth time Fandor had insisted on his identity, and Dumoulin,
tapping the case papers with an agitated hand, had replied:

"I recognise that you are Jérôme Fandor, exercising the profession of a
journalist--since it seems journalism is a profession! But that is not the
question; the problem I have to elucidate! I have to ascertain when, and at
what exact moment, one Jérôme Fandor took the personality of Corporal
Vinson!"...

"I have already told you, Commandant!... Please read my deposition of the
day before yesterday. I will recapitulate:

"Sunday, November 13th, at five o'clock in the evening, at my domicile,

rue Richer, I received the visit of a soldier whom I did not know. He stated
that he was called Corporal Vinson, and informed me that he had become
part and parcel of the spy system; that he regretted it, and, not being able to
extricate himself, he was going to commit suicide.... Desiring to give this
unfortunate a chance of rehabilitating himself, desiring also to come to
close quarters with this gang of spies, I decided to assume his personality,
and take advantage of his entrance into a regiment where he was not
known, and to go there in his place. It was in these conditions that I left
eight days after, on Sunday, November 20th, for Verdun."
CHAPTER PAGE 309

"You maintain that you did not assume the personality of Vinson before
that date?"

"I do maintain that, Commandant."

"But that is the pivot of the whole business, and the important point yet to
be proved!"

"That is not difficult," declared Fandor: "I have alibis who will support my
statement."

The commandant raised his arms to heaven.

"Alibis! Alibis!... What do they prove, after all?"

"The truth, Commandant.... When I am in Paris it is evident I am not in

Châlons or Verdun."

Dumoulin was evidently trying to find an argument to meet the accused's

logic.

"Peuh!" declared he: "With fellows like you, who are perpetually disguising
themselves, changing their faces as I change my collars, one never
knows."... Suddenly Dumoulin's face lighted up.

"Tuesday, November 29th, you were in the shoes of Vinson--is that so?"

"Yes, Commandant."

"Very well. This same Tuesday, November 29th, you were at the Elysée
ball as Jérôme Fandor! So you see!"

Dumoulin was triumphant.

"I had twenty-four hours' leave, Commandant--quite regular!" protested

Fandor.
CHAPTER PAGE 310

"Ah!" growled the commandant, glancing knowingly at Lieutenant Servin,

who with impassive countenance was listening to this discussion: "Don't
talk to me about leave!... Heaven alone knows how easily you spies
succeed in obtaining leave!"

Fandor was about to protest vehemently against being numbered with the
spies, when the commandant started another subject.

"Added to this, there is something very serious in your case."

"Good Heavens! What now?" ejaculated Fandor.

Dumoulin looked mysterious.

"We will speak of it later on.... The next step is to confront you with certain
witnesses: Lieutenant Servin, see if the witnesses are there!"

Fandor himself had demanded this confrontation. He did not deny having
assumed the personality of Corporal Vinson, dating from the day when the
corporal entered officially on his duties as a unit of the 257th of the line, in
garrison at Verdun. But the enquiry wished to establish that, anterior to this,
Fandor had already taken the place of the real Vinson: the military
authorities seemed to attach immense importance to this point. Fandor had
then decided that the simplest way was to be brought face to face with
soldiers who had known Vinson at Châlons: they would state that the
Vinson presented to them in the person of Fandor was not the Vinson they
had known.

Thereupon Dumoulin had sent for two men who, as orderlies at Châlons,
had lived side by side with Vinson.

There was a momentous silence while Lieutenant Servin went to the end of
the corridor and signed to the two waiting witnesses to come forward. The
two men entered the commandant's office, facing Dumoulin in true military
style.
CHAPTER PAGE 311

Dumoulin, reading out the names of the two witnesses from a paper, started
his interrogation with a haughty air.

"Hiloire?"

"Present, Commandant."

"What is your name?"

The soldier opened his eyes wide, and thinking he had to give his Christian
name, stammered:

"Justinien!"

"What?" growled the commandant: "You are not called Hiloire?"

The bewildered man attempted some confused explanations, from which it

could be gathered that Hiloire was his surname and Justinien his baptismal
name!

"Good!" declared the commandant, who proceeded to question the second

soldier as to his identity! When it was made clear that he was one Tarbottin,
baptismal name Niccodème, the commandant questioned them together.

"You are soldiers of the second class in the 213th of the line, and fulfil the
functions of staff orderlies?"

"Yes, Commandant."

"You know Corporal Vinson?"

"Yes, Commandant."

Dumoulin pointed to Fandor.

"Is he Corporal Vinson?"

CHAPTER PAGE 312

"Yes, Commandant," repeated the two soldiers.

Lieutenant Servin intervened. He pointed out to his chief that the witnesses
had replied in the affirmative without turning to look at the supposed
corporal.

The commandant cried angrily:

"What kind of imbeciles are you? Before saying that you recognise a
person you must begin by looking at that person! Look at the corporal!"

The two soldiers obeyed: they turned with precision and stared at Fandor.

"Is that man Corporal Vinson?"

"Yes, Commandant."

"You are sure of that?"

"No, Commandant."

Despite the miserable position he found himself in, Fandor could not help
smiling at the bewilderment of the two soldiers: it was evident they could
be made to say anything.

The commandant was growing more and more exasperated.

"What's that!" he shouted: "I will give you eight days in the cells if you
continue to play the fool like this!... Try to understand what you are doing!
Do you even know why you are here?"

After consulting each other with a look as to who should answer, Tarbottin
explained:

"It is the sergeant who told us that we were being sent to Paris to recognise
Corporal Vinson--well, then?"
CHAPTER PAGE 313

"Well," continued Hiloire: "we recognised him!"

Then, speaking together, with an air of proud satisfaction:

"Yes, we got our orders. We have carried them out!"

The commandant was scarlet. With a violent blow of his fist he sent three
sets of case papers flying to the ground. He turned to Lieutenant Servin.

"I fail to understand why the staff captain has expressly sent us the biggest
fools he could lay hands on.... What the deuce can you get out of such a
pair?... Has the counter verification been carried out? Have they been
shown the body of the real Corporal Vinson?"

Lieutenant Servin replied that this had been done.

"And what did they declare?"

"Nothing definite.... I may say they were very much moved at the sight of
the corpse--also, that it is decomposing rapidly."

Here Fandor broke in:

"Commandant, I am extremely surprised that you thought it necessary to

summon only two soldiers! It is at least strange!... I have the right to expect
that in the conduct of the enquiry connected with the action you wish to
bring against me you should proceed more seriously than you are doing at
present.... A magistrate should be impartial!"...

The commandant had risen. He bent towards Fandor across his

writing-table. Fandor also had risen--Dumoulin's air was threatening: he
was furious.

"What do you mean by that?" he shouted.

CHAPTER PAGE 314

"I mean to say," burst out Fandor, "that for the last forty-eight hours you
have given proofs of a revolting partiality--against me!"

For a minute Dumoulin drew himself up, crimson, choking: he was an

embodied protest. Suddenly he dropped the official and became the
fellow-citizen. He cried:

"But I am an honest man!"

Dumoulin was a worthy official of the old school. Whatever his

temperamental drawbacks, he undoubtedly aimed at a conscientious
conduct of any case he had in charge. Fandor had made an exceedingly bad
impression on him. He had been scandalised that a civilian, a mere
journalist, had dared to treat the army with contempt, by so lightly taking
the place of a real soldier. Unquestionably there were grave presumptions
of Fandor's guilt: that was Dumoulin's opinion.

Considering the importance of the affair, the terrible consequences which

might ensue for the accused were the case to go against him, it was
imperative that the enquiry should be thorough down to the minutest
detail.... The commandant well knew the weak points in his procedure.
There was this confrontation, with the absurd testimonies of the two
soldiers: it had proved a ridiculous fiasco. Also, he would have great
difficulty in showing conclusively that Fandor had been a certain time at
Châlons under Vinson's uniform.

Dumoulin, mastering his emotion, resumed his official tone.

"Fandor!"...

He stopped short, glared indignantly at the two soldiers planted in the

middle of the room.

"What are you two up to now?" he cried.

The ridiculous pair saluted, but did not reply.

CHAPTER PAGE 315

"Lieutenant, remove those men! We do not want any more of them here!
Take them out of my sight!" growled Dumoulin.

The commandant felt he must have a breath of fresh air, collect his
thoughts, and calm down before resuming conduct of the case.

"We shall continue this interrogation in ten minutes' time," he announced

and left the room.

*****

The short interval had done its work. The commandant had calmed down,
Fandor had regained his self-possession. No longer was it an irascible
officer facing an inimical accused: two men, fellow-citizens, were prepared
to argue and talk together.... The formal interrogation recommenced.

"Fandor," began the commandant in an amiable tone, "you have evidently

been drawn on by unforeseen events to commit irregularities. Name your
accomplices!"...

Fandor replied in a similar tone.

"No, Commandant, I have not been drawn into the spy circle really, nor
have I practised spying.... I considered it right to assume the personality of
Corporal Vinson solely to obtain information regarding the relations this
unfortunate maintained, compulsorily and quite against his better judgment,
with the agents of a foreign power. When I had obtained the facts I sought,
my intention was to leave the law to deal with them."

"In other words," said Dumoulin: "you aimed at playing the counter-spy!"

"If you like to put it so!"

The commandant smiled ironically.

CHAPTER PAGE 316

"They always say that!... In the course of my career, Monsieur Fandor, I

have had to examine three or four spy cases: well, the defence of the guilty
man is always the same--you have taken up an identical position: I sell
secret documents in exchange for more important ones!... This system of
defence will not hold water!"

"I cannot take up any other position!" declared Fandor.

"The Council will take that at its proper value," announced the
commandant.

Fandor was asking himself how he was going to get out of a position that
was growing worse, and that in a very curious way!

The commandant's next question struck a shrewd blow at the accused.

"Fandor--How about those accomplices you refuse to name?... Have they

not remunerated you for your pains?"

"What do you mean to imply by that?" demanded Fandor.

"Have they not given you money?"

"No!"

"Think carefully, and be frank!"

Fandor ransacked his memory.... Ah!... What of that interview in the

printing works of the Noret brothers? Would it be best in accordance with
his aims to deny it? It went against the grain of his naturally frank nature to
tell such a lie.... Nevertheless he had vowed to himself a well-considered
vow that he would not reveal what he had learned: it would be a grave
mistake at present.

He lowered his head as he persisted in his declaration:

CHAPTER PAGE 317

"No, Commandant! I have not received money from the spies."

The commandant called to the reporter:

"Make a special note of that: underline it with red pencil. This is a most
important statement!"

The commandant turned over some papers in his drawer, drew out a sealed
envelope, opened it, extracted another envelope.

Fandor asked himself, with a thrill of foreboding, what this new move of
the commandant's meant.

From a third envelope, Dumoulin took out several bank-notes, yellowed

and crumpled. He held them up for Fandor to see.

"Here are three fifty franc bank-notes--new ones!... They bear the following
numbers: A 4998; O 4350; U 5108. They were found, with others,
concealed in your baggage at the Saint-Benoit barracks at Verdun. Do you
recognise these notes as having been in your possession?"

"How do you think I can know that?" countered Fandor. "One bank-note is
not distinguishable from another!"

"Yes they are: by the numbering," asserted the commandant.... "I willingly
admit that it is not usual to write down for reference the number of every
bank-note which passes through one's hands!... We have a better way of
demonstrating that the notes I have in my hand were in your possession."

"What exactly is he going to spring upon me now?" Fandor asked himself.

There was an impressive pause.

"These notes," declared Dumoulin, "have been carefully examined by the

anthropometric service. It has been demonstrated that they bear distinct
traces of your finger-marks.... I hope, Monsieur Fandor, that you do not
CHAPTER PAGE 318

contest the exactitude of the Bertillion method?"

"No," replied Fandor simply. "I accept the evidence of the anthropometric
method."

The commandant looked more and more satisfied.

"You acknowledge then, that these notes were in your possession?"

"Yes, I do."

The commandant again addressed the reporter:

"Note that important confession! Underline it with red pencil!"

Dumoulin fired a point-blank question at Fandor.

"Did you know Captain Brocq?"

"No."

"You did know him," insisted the commandant.

"No," repeated Fandor. He questioned in his turn:

"Why?"

"Because."... The commandant hesitated, then continued:

"You are not ignorant of the fact that an important document was stolen
from the domicile of this mysteriously murdered man?"

"I know it," admitted Fandor.

"That is not all," continued Dumoulin: "A certain amount of money was
also stolen from this unfortunate officer. Now, Brocq was in the habit of
CHAPTER PAGE 319

putting down in his pocket-book the exact sums he possessed and--mark

this well--also entering the numbers of his bank-notes!... Now, bank-notes
have disappeared from his cash drawer. The missing notes bear the
numbers: A 4998; O 4350; U 5108; the very notes found in your
pocket-book!"

There ensued a dreadful silence. Fandor was thunderstruck.... Everything

seemed in league against him.... Oh, he was caught like a mouse in a trap!...
These must be the notes that the red-bearded man--probably one of the
Noret brothers--had slipped into his hand!... Evidently, from the time of his
leaving Paris in Corporal Vinson's uniform, the traitorous gang he meant to
expose had known him for what he was! Without suspecting it, he had been
the hunted instead of the hunter: and this chaser of damaged goods and
trumpery wares had been caught in his trap like a fool!... These
unscrupulous wretches had hatched an abominable plot against him!...
Fandor felt that each instant saw him deeper in the toils! His whole being
was invaded by a terrible anxiety, an immense fear. Who could be so
powerful, so subtle, so formidable as to have made a fool of him in such a
fashion, to have led him into such traps that even Juve himself could do
nothing to save him?

One being, and one only, was capable of such a diabolically clever
performance; and Fandor, who would not believe it some weeks before,
when discussing the question with Juve, had now to accept his hypothesis
as a certainty: his acts caused his unseen personality to hit you in the eyes!
Only one person could pull the strings with such a demon hand!... Yes,
Fandor could no longer doubt that his desperate plight was due to the
terrific, odious, elusive Fantômas!

Our journalist was now in the lowest depths. He attempted to keep calm
and cool, but he had lost grip of himself.... He stammered, he mumbled
confusedly, justifications, excuses, charging the Noret brothers with having
given him those terrible bank-notes.

Dumoulin, on his side, was convinced that his examination had made an
immense step in the right direction. He considered that the interrogation
CHAPTER PAGE 320

might well end with a last word, a last sentence. He turned to the wretched,
over-strained Fandor, and in tones of the utmost solemnity administered his
finishing stroke.

"Jérôme Fandor, not only are you accused of the crimes of treason and
spying, but, taking into account the formal avowals you have just made, I,
here and now, declare you guilty of the assassination of Captain Brocq, of
the theft of his documents, and of his money!"

XXXI

A CARAVAN DRAMA

The night was dark and stormy. On the Sceaux road a gipsy was braving
the tempest, making difficult headway in the teeth of a gale which flapped
her long cloak with impeding force, soaked her to the skin, dashed masses
of water in her face, plastered streaming locks to her forehead, taking her
breath with its suffocating rush. Shielding her mouth with her hand, the
gipsy pressed steadily forward.

A church struck eleven slow strokes, borne on the wind. Lashed by the
tempest, the gipsy pressed on, muttering as she moved:

"Vagualame told me that he would be at the first milestone beyond the

aviation sheds.... I must get there! I will get there!"

It was Bobinette, struggling on in blind obedience to him whom she

considered her master, towards the strange meeting-place fixed by the
bandit five days ago.

Under her looks of Parisian delicacy, Bobinette had a valiant spirit, a

high-strung temperament and a will of steel.... Bobinette wished to reach
the appointed trysting-place: she would reach it.

But gipsy Bobinette had her fears. She was painfully impressed by the
obscurity of the night--sinister, menacing. From the marshy fields flanking
CHAPTER PAGE 321

her to right and left unaccustomed sounds, weird noises reached her
straining ears through the gusty darkness.

Then what did her master want with her here, and at such an hour?

Never had Bobinette confessed to herself that Vagualame's real identity

was unknown to her. What dark personality was hid behind that familiar
figure? She asked herself that now, with shuddering apprehension. She had
remarked certain coincidences, noted certain details: she divined that this
enigmatic accordion player might well be none other than--Fantômas.

Fantômas! That name was it not a frightful symbol of all the crimes, all the
atrocities, the monstrous synthesis of unpunished evil?

In her tormented brain those three syllables of sinister intent were sounding
like a funeral knell.... At thought of Fantômas and Vagualame co-mingled,
Bobinette's terror-filled heart fainted within her. Yet, prey to haunting
terrors as she was, Bobinette pressed unfalteringly forward towards what
Fate held for her.

One reassuring thought came to hearten her. At every step she took the
sequins of her gipsy circlet moved and shook and tinkled on her forehead.
They reminded her of the words chanted by the old second-hand dealer
when he sold her the string of sequins, words from the celebrated song of
the Andalusian gipsies.:

"The coral shines on my skin so brown-- The pin of gold in my chignon: I

go in search of my fortune."...

Was she truly hastening towards good fortune through this night of wind
and rain?... Why not? Bobinette felt comforted. She said to herself that
since Vagualame had summoned her to meet him in gipsy costume, it must
be because he intended to help her to escape: otherwise why had he
foreseen the necessity for such a disguise?
CHAPTER PAGE 322

To make sure of finding the rendezvous, she had taken a reconnoitering

journey along the Sceaux road the night before.... She knew now she was
close to the famous milestone.

Bobinette jumped as though she would leap out of her skin!

On the left side of the road tall trees, stripped of their leaves, stood swaying
like skeletons in the wind. Just there her eyes had seen something dark, a
black patch, blacker than the surrounding night.

What was it?

A strange sound issued from the darkness, a low, dull, deep, complaining
sound breathed from some infernal throat! Was it a cry, a growl, a snarl?...
She halted, shivering with fright, her ears humming, her heart contracted in
the grip of an indescribable terror, doubting her senses, doubting the reality
of the sound she had heard.

Bobinette stood motionless.

The wind whistling through the branches conveyed another sound to her
senses. She heard a mocking voice, harsh, imperious, a menacing voice, a
voice whose orders she had obeyed many a time and oft, a voice she had
never heard without secret terror, the voice of her master--Vagualame!

"Go forward, you fool! Why do you halt?"

As though galvanised, Bobinette with a supreme effort of will obeyed. A

few seconds and she was by the side of Vagualame, who had come to meet
her.

"Did you hear?" she gasped.

"I heard the bellowing of the wind," laughed Vagualame: "I heard the
sound of sleety rain, I heard the noise of trees writhing and creaking in the
wind--nothing more!"
CHAPTER PAGE 323

"Someone or something cried out!"

"Who could?... We are alone here!... Bobinette you are alone here with
me!"

There was a pause. Vagualame's voice was once more mocking.

"Am I to think you are afraid?"

"No, Vagualame, I am not afraid; but."...

"But you are trembling like a leaf!" cried Vagualame, with a burst of
laughter which sounded strangely false. He seized Bobinette in an iron grip
and forced her forward.

"Come! Come under shelter!" They moved towards the black blot
Bobinette had not yet identified. Almost directly they were leaning against
a gipsy van drawn up at the side of the road.

"Your future domicile," said Vagualame, showing the van to the bewildered
Bobinette. "But this is not the time to install yourself--there are things to be
said first--between you and me, Bobinette!"

The bandit was enveloped from head to foot in a dark cloak. All Bobinette
could see of him was his profile: his features were concealed by a soft felt
hat with turned-down brim, which showed at intervals against the sky when
the lightning flashed and flickered.

The girl shivered: her master's last words were full of some dark menace.

"What do you want to say?" she murmured.

Vagualame took a few steps forward, then returned to where the girl was
leaning against the van.
CHAPTER PAGE 324

"Listen to me, Bobinette, listen, for, by Heaven, the words I am about to

utter are the last you will ever hear."

Before Bobinette could interrupt, Vagualame continued:

"Tell me, do you know of anything more wicked, more contemptible, more
vile, more shameful than treachery, than betrayal, than a trap set, a snare
laid to catch one who has always been your friend, your defender?... Tell
me, Bobinette, who is more hateful than the Judas who sells you with a
kiss?... Tell me, Bobinette, who is less worthy of pity than the cowardly
criminal who betrays his accomplice?... Than the bandit who delivers up
his chief for money, perhaps for less than money--because of fear--who
betrays his master to save his own skin?"...

Bobinette did not seem to understand one word of this apostrophe. She kept
silence, terrified, crushed, in front of the awful abyss she divined.

Vagualame seized her by the shoulders and shook her brutally, thrusting
her fiercely against the side of the van.

"Speak! Reply, Bobinette! I command you!"

"I do not understand you! I am afraid!"

A shout of ferocious laughter burst from Vagualame.

"You do not understand me! You are afraid?... Ah! If you are afraid it is
because you understand well enough!... Bobinette! You know well enough
what I have to reproach you with!... What I have to force you to expiate!"...

A hoarse cry escaped the girl's parched lips:

"You are mad, mad, Vagualame!... Pity!... Pity!"

In a voice so hard, so biting, that the words seemed arrows piercing her
quivering flesh, the bandit addressed his victim:
CHAPTER PAGE 325

"Bobinette, you deceive yourself strangely! I am not of those to whom one

cries for pity!... I know not the word, nor such weakness. I have never had
it, and never shall have it for any living soul."

The bandit paused. Then, in a tone of rising anger, he continued:

"And you think me mad? But what sort of woman are you, Bobinette, to try
and deceive me? What madness is yours to think, to imagine you can dupe
me?... To confess that with such words and speeches as your feminine mind
can think of you are going to ensnare me, make me alter my decision, turn
me from my vengeance--that you should decide how I shall act--I?... I?...
Vagualame?"

The bandit pronounced "I?" with such an accent of authority, with such
terrific pride, that Bobinette, with a sound as though the death rattle were in
her throat, cried:

"Vagualame! Who are you? Tell me!... Tell me!"...

"You ask me who I am?... You wish to know?... It be according to your

wish!... Who am I?... Look!"...

Slowly, with a movement firm and dignified, Vagualame unfolded the long
cloak which enveloped him. He tore off his hat and flung it at his feet. With
arms crossed he apostrophied Bobinette:

"Dare to utter my name! Dare to name me!"

Before Bobinette's distracted eyes a terrifying outline showed itself.... The

beggar of a moment ago, his cloak removed, his hat thrown to the ground,
appeared no more a bent old man: he stood there, upright, young, vigorous,
superbly muscular. He was sheathed from head to foot in a tight-fitting
garment, black as Erebus!

Bobinette could not see his face, a black hood covered it: two gleaming
eyes alone were visible, eyes that to the distraught girl seemed lit by fires
CHAPTER PAGE 326

from hell!

This vision, the vision of this man without a face, resembling no other man,
this apparition with nameless mask, its body like some statue cut from solid
darkness, was yet so definite in its mystery that Bobinette, uttering the
indescribable cry of some inhuman thing, articulated:

"Fantômas!... You are Fantômas!"

The bandit spoke:

"I am Fantômas!... I am he for whom the entire world is searching, whom

none has ever seen, whom none can recognise!... I am Crime incarnated!... I
am Night!... No human sees my face, because Crime and Night are
featureless!... I am illimitable Power!... I am he who mocks at all the
powers, at all the efforts, at all the forces!... I am master of all, of
everything; of all times and seasons.... I am Death!... Bobinette, thou hast
said it--I am Fantômas."

His wretched listener could not breathe. She felt death in her veins: she felt
the earth dissolving into dust.... She sank on her knees.

"Pity, master! Pity!... Fantômas, have pity!"...

"You join those words together!... Fantômas and Pity!"... A furious anger
seized the bandit. "Fantômas knows not what mercy is, I tell you!...
Fantômas ordains that whoso resist him shall perish--shall disappear!"

"But, Master!... What have I done?... Master!... Fantômas, what have I

done?"

Slowly the bandit enveloped himself once more in his cloak.... Bobinette
was on her knees, as one nailed to the earth!... Fantômas had hypnotised her
into immobility, as the bird is hypnotised by the cat watching its prey. He
played with her. He could seize and master her at his pleasure.
CHAPTER PAGE 327

In a voice cold and hard as the nether millstone, he denounced his victim:

"Bobinette, you aimed at my betrayal!... You pointed out the Nihilist's

haunt to Juve, to Fandor, to my most personal enemies, to those who would
hound me to the guillotine!"

"I never did!... I did not do it!... I swear it!" shrieked the maddened girl.

Fantômas, convinced that Bobinette, and she alone, was the traitor here....

"You are to die; but not by my hand!... The hand of Fantômas does not deal
death to those who once served him, to the traitorous wretches once in his
employ!... But you shall die, Bobinette! I deliver you to death!"...

Fantômas laughed. He laughed because the body of this woman, huddled in

the mud, crushed to the earth, was a pleasing thing, because Fantômas was
happy when he made human creatures suffer, when he tortured, when he
wrought sweet vengeance....

Far away sounded the church bells.... The carillon was ringing.... Church
bells were chiming through the night. To Bobinette, the abject creature
grovelling in the mire of the roadway, the bells sounded vaguely serene,
far, far away....

She seemed to be floating in some indefinable element, floating like

thistledown on an irresistible breeze.... Suddenly she had the sensation that
she was sinking, falling, that she was rolling down, down, into the depths of
a bottomless abyss....

When she opened her eyes, tried to move, sat up, she knew she was not
dreaming.... She knew she had lost consciousness and was coming back to
life.... She asked herself could she possibly be alive? Fantômas had
threatened her with death, and yet she lived.... Where was she?... Bobinette
felt so weak and giddy that she remained in a sitting posture.... What
exactly had happened?... Ah!--yes!--when Fantômas had announced she
was to die, she had fallen down on the road: her skirt was still wet and
CHAPTER PAGE 328

muddy, her testing fingers told her that! She was cold! What had happened
since?... Bobinette heard the wind blowing rain as still falling, but she
noticed none fell on her face.

"Where am I?" she asked aloud. Clear came the mental answer:

"Fantômas has shut me up in this van! I am imprisoned in this van!"... She

felt about her with her fingers. She was certainly sitting on rough boards....
She knelt, she stretched out her arms: she touched rough boards.... Yes, this
was the van she was in!... Was Fantômas quite near? He might appear
again! She was not saved!... But in Bobinette who, terrified at being
confronted with Fantômas self-confessed, had tasted the bitterness of death,
a powerful reaction had set in: she was becoming mistress of herself once
more.

Fantômas had said to her: "Thou shalt die!" She now decided that she
would live, would save herself!... She must escape!

"If Fantômas were there I should hear him," she thought. "He must have
gone.... I must at all costs escape from this prison before he returns."

Bobinette got up.... The van must have a door, a window. She would force
her way out somehow. She was strong, and she was fighting for her life!...
She would make a tour of the van!... She felt her way by fingering the
wooden side of her prison.... The van must be empty, she thought, for she
had not encountered any furniture--when, suddenly, she felt her hand come
into contact with something soft and warm, which moved. What was it?...

Bobinette jumped back.... She must be mad to imagine!... She waited a few
moments--she stepped forward--anew her fingers touched something.... She
could not say what!... But while she tried to define the strange object her
fingers touched, she felt the unknown thing was drawing back--was
avoiding her caress!...

The van was now filled with a formidable growling. She recognised it as a
repetition of the sound she had heard when nearing her sinister rendezvous.
CHAPTER PAGE 329

Bobinette understood!... She knew!... It was a bear!... It had been asleep.

She had waked it!

Fantômas had shut her in with a bear: she was to be devoured alive!

Bobinette softly withdrew to the other side of the van. She waited. No
growling sound reached her. The bear must have gone to sleep again. She
could hear its heavy breathing. As the air became exhausted in the confined
space the noisome odour of the beast caught her by the throat.... What was
she to do? Bobinette asked herself this again and again as the slow and
dreadful hours of that night wore on.

"The bear sleeps," she said to herself; "but he will wake in the morning
hungry: he will hurl himself on me and I shall be done for!"

After interminable hours of waiting, of aching immobility, of dull agony of

mind, the interior of the van was becoming slowly visible.... She had
listened to the lessening fury of the wind: the rain had ceased. The wan
light of early day came through the cracks in the planking. Bobinette could
see the bear waking up: it turned, yawned: suddenly it fixed its eyes on her
and crouched.

What should she do? What could she do?

Bobinette had once read that the human eye could frighten a wild beast into
submission: she forced herself to stare at the animal with concentrated
energy. Alas! she was too frightened herself to terrify a ferocious animal
into harmless submission!

The bear licked itself. As though sure of its prey, which he would presently
fall upon and rend, he took his time and proceeded to make his toilette.

It was grotesquely tragic, the leisurely tranquillity of this beast face to face
with this girl who could count the seconds of life remaining to her.

*****
CHAPTER PAGE 330

Now and again Bobinette could hear the rapid passings of motor-cars on
the high road outside, speeding to Paris or Versailles, passing the van
abandoned, left derelict by the wayside. Far, indeed, were these passers
from suspecting the terrible drama of which it was the theatre.

Call out?

That were madness! Her cries might pass unheeded. Why should she
suppose the drivers of these cars racing on their appointed way would stop,
locate the cry, and succour her? No, it would but excite the anger of the
bear, rouse it to action, thus hasten her own dreadful end!...

*****

A man was walking on the Sceaux road--walking fast. He wore the clothes
of a working man. He was leading a sorry nag.... The man halted and let the
nag go free. A sound had caught his ear--a growling sound.

He listened intently.

"Did I imagine it?" he murmured.

Again that growling, punctuated by a woman's sharp scream. The man was
off at racing speed towards the van, which was but a hundred yards away.

"Great Heaven! Shall I arrive too late?" ejaculated the man.

Reaching it, breathless, he glued his ear to the door. The van shook with the
movement and growling of some beast of prey about to spring.

The man drew back, rushed forward, hurled himself against the door and
drove it inwards.

A shot broke the silence of the morning.

CHAPTER PAGE 331

The man rolled over the body of the bear, shot dead through the heart. The
man freed himself; escaped the convulsive movement of its limbs, and
crawled towards a crumpled heap huddled in a corner of this tragic stage.
Bobinette's poor face, exposed to view, was slashed and torn: it bore the
dreadful claw-marks of the bear.

The man placed his hand on her heart.

"She lives!" he said softly.

Supporting her with infinite gentleness, the man addressed her in a voice
trembling with emotion:

"Do not be afraid, Bobinette! You are saved! It is Juve who is telling you
so! It is Juve!"

XXXII

FREE AND PRISONER

Isolated in the cell which had served him as dwelling-place for the past
fortnight, Jérôme Fandor had had his ups and downs, hours of deepest
depression, hours of violent exasperation when he suffered an intolerable
martyrdom between his four walls--suffered morally and physically.

Yet his imprisonment had been rendered as tolerable as possible. He could

have his meals brought in from outside and obtain from the library such
books as there were.

How he longed for a talk with Juve; but that detective was rigorously
excluded from the prison. Juve was to be a witness at the trial.

As Fandor was to conduct his own case there were no consultations with
his counsel to relieve the monotony of the days; nor were newspapers
allowed him. He had no friends or relatives to visit and console him or
divert him.
CHAPTER PAGE 332

In his sleepless hours Fandor's thoughts would revert to his past, to the
frightful drama of his boyhood, to the assassination of the Marquise de
Langrune, when he, a youth of eighteen, had been suspected, had even been
accused of committing this murder, the accuser being his own father![8]

[Footnote 8: See Fantômas: vol. i, Fantômas Series.]

He remembered that, commencing the very day after the discovery of the
crime, his existence had been that of a pariah flying from the police, from
those who knew him; remembered how he had assumed disguise after
disguise, denied by his father, ignored by his mother, an unfortunate
woman who had lost her reason and was shut up in a lunatic asylum.

The only gleam of happiness which had come to illumine the dreary
darkness of his youth resolved itself into a memory picture of a pale dawn
when the lad, Charles Rambert, leaving a wine-shop, had been caught by
Juve, who, believing in his innocence, had taken him under his protection,
had given him the name of Jérôme Fandor, and helped him to start a new
life.[9]

[Footnote 9: See The Exploits of Juve> vol. ii, Fantômas Series.]

From then onwards that timid lad, disheartened by his misfortunes, had
regained courage and hope, and had boldly plunged into the struggle to
live.

His heart and soul were in his journalistic work. Of an enquiring turn of
mind, Fandor had not been content with the episodic work of a mere
reporter: he eagerly pursued the guilty, took a lively interest in the victims,
and became Juve's valuable collaborator, with whom the bonds of
friendship strengthened day by day.

Thus Fandor, in Juve's company, was drawn into the hurly-burly, into the
troubles and torments of criminal affairs so mysterious, so phenomenal,
that, for several years in succession, they created a sensation, not only in
Paris but throughout France.
CHAPTER PAGE 333

He constituted himself one of the most implacable enemies of Fantômas.

The more so, because he was satisfied that the "Genius of Crime," as this
monster had been called, had had a considerable share in the vicissitudes
and troubles of his own life. Fandor felt that this monster's sinister
influence was still being exercised against him.

Too often, in those wakeful hours when he reviewed his life, following the
course of it in a kind of mental cinematograph, did Fandor think of
Elizabeth Dollon. It was with sad yet sweet emotion, with a piercing regret,
but with an unfailing hope, that he saw before his inner vision the
charming, the adored face, and figure of Elizabeth Dollon, for whom he had
felt, and felt still, an affection profound and sincere. He loved her: he
would always love her.[10]

[Footnote 10: See Messengers of Evil: vol. iii, Fantômas Series.]

He thought of her brother's death and the extraordinary disappearance of his

body, of his own pursuit of the assassin, of the discovery, made with Juve,
that the murderer of Jacques Dollon was none other than the elusive
Fantômas.

Assuredly that ill-omened bandit was responsible for the sudden departure
of Elizabeth, immediately after Fandor had obtained from her charming lips
the sweet avowal of her love.... He owed to Fantômas that he had been
unable to join his life to that of this exquisite girl: to Fantômas he owed it
that he could not trace her to her unknown retreat. Was she still in the land
of the living? It was ultimately to Fantômas that he owed his present
dreadful position--to this thrice accursed Genius of Crime--Fantômas.

*****

That evening Fandor's absorbing reflections were broken into by the

turning of a key in the lock of his cell at an unusual hour. Through the
half-opened door he heard the close of a conversation between his jailor
and an unknown person.
CHAPTER PAGE 334

"I also give notice, my good fellow, that my secretary will come to join me
presently," said the strange voice. The jailor replied:

"That is quite understood, Maître. I will warn my colleague, who will come
on guard in my stead in ten minutes' time."

Fandor saw a barrister entering his cell. He supposed him to be the official
advocate prescribed by the Council of War.... Not in the least disposed to
unbosom himself to this defending counsel imposed on him by law, Fandor
was about to give him a freezing reception, but at sight of the new arrival's
face our journalist stood speechless. He recognised under the barrister's
gown someone whose features were deeply graven on his memory, though
he had not met him but once.

"Naarbo."... escaped his lips.

A brusque warning movement of the new-comer cut Fandor short. At the

same time he closed the door with a lightning quick movement. The pseudo
advocate then approached Fandor, saying in a low tone:

"Do not seem to recognise me. Yes, I am de Naarboveck.... It is thanks to a

subterfuge that I have been able to get near you."...

Fandor was nonplussed. A hundred questions rose to his lips, but he did not
speak. He had better await developments. As de Naarboveck had run such
risks to enter his cell so disguised, he must have something extraordinary to
say to the prisoner, Jérôme Fandor!

De Naarboveck seated himself on the one bench the cell contained. He

invited Fandor to sit close to him, so that they might converse in low tones.

"Monsieur," began the baron, "I obtained a permit to visit you as the
official advocate allotted to you by the president: that official's visit is due
to-morrow.... Well, a favour is never lost when one is not dealing with the
ungrateful!... Some weeks ago, when you came to interview me with regard
to the deplorable assassination of Captain Brocq, I spoke freely to you, and
CHAPTER PAGE 335

at the same time asked you to give me your word not to put into print a
number of those personal details with which journalists like to sprinkle
their pages."...

"I remember," agreed Fandor.

"I confess I did not put much faith in your discretion, being a journalist,"
went on the baron. "I was then agreeably surprised to find that I had been
interviewed by a man of tact. Since then I have followed with sympathy the
tenebrous adventures in which you have been involved.... It was not
without emotion that I learned of the grievous position you are now in. I
will come straight to the point--I am here to extricate you from that
position."

Fandor caught de Naarboveck's hands in his, and pressed them warmly.

"Can what you tell me be true?" he exclaimed.

The diplomat hastily withdrew his hands from Fandor's grasp, opened a
heavy portfolio such as advocates carry, and drew from it a black gown like
his own, an advocate's cap, and a pair of dark coloured trousers.

"Put these on as quickly as possible," said de Naarboveck, "and we will

leave here together."

Fandor hesitated: de Naarboveck insisted.

"It is of the first importance that you leave here! I know where proofs of
your innocence are to be found.... We have not a minute to lose: besides, as
a member of the diplomatic service, it is of the utmost interest to me that
the document stolen from Captain Brocq should be recovered.... I know
where it is. I want you to return it to the Government. That will be the most
striking proof possible of your innocence."

Fandor's critical faculties were momentarily suspended: he seemed moving

in some dream. Mechanically he clothed himself in the get-up which the
CHAPTER PAGE 336

baron had thought good to bring him.

Fandor had seen so many extraordinary things in the course of his

adventurous existence, that he did not stay to question the reason for this
diplomat's interest in his poor affairs--an interest so strong that he had run
serious risks to reach the prisoner and make himself the accomplice of that
prisoner's flight.

Out of prison, free, Fandor could and would act!

The two apparent men of the law gently opened the cell door. De
Naarboveck cast a rapid glance up and down the corridor, on to which half
a dozen cells opened.... The corridor was empty and silent. De Naarboveck
and Fandor stepped out, gently closing the cell door.

"The opening of the prison door is our next difficulty to be overcome,"

whispered de Naarboveck: "I warned the jailor that I expected my
secretary. Let us hope he will take you as such and let us pass out
unmolested."

*****

The military prison of the Council of War of Paris is not like other prisons:
that is why de Naarboveck's plan had a fair chance of success. It would
certainly have failed had it been attempted at La Santé or at La Roquette....
This building had been a private hotel of the old style.

On the first floor, the former reception-rooms had been divided into small
offices, and the principal drawing-room had been transformed into a
court-room. On the ground floor, what were evidently the kitchens and
domestic offices in the last century now constituted the prison proper, for in
these quarters are arranged the cells where the accused await their
appearance before their judges. No one unacquainted with these
arrangements would suspect that the low door, scarcely noticeable in the
vestibule facing the staircase leading to the first floor is the entrance to the
prison.
CHAPTER PAGE 337

Yet those who pass through this low door find themselves in the corridor
lined with prison cells.

At the door of the prison a warder is posted, whose rôle is not so much to
watch the prisoners and prevent any attempt at escape as to open to persons
needing to enter that ill-omened place. At night-time supervision is relaxed.
The warder has to keep the offices in good order, and when he has his key
in his pocket, certain that the heavy bolts and locks cannot be forced, he
comes and goes about the house.

De Naarboveck was not only well posted in these details, but was aware
that up to the day of Fandor's trial, in view of the extra coming and going, it
had been decided to give the guardian an assistant, and that this assistant
would be at his post from six o'clock onwards.

It was past six o'clock.

The chances were, that when the false advocates knocked from the inside,
the prison door would be opened to allow them egress by the
supplementary guardian. De Naarboveck tapped on the peephole made in
the massive door.

The noise of heavy bolts withdrawn was heard; the prison door was half
opened: the warder's face appeared. Fandor stifled a sigh of satisfaction: it
was a jailor who did not know him: it was the substitute counted upon.

"Ah!" cried he, saluting the gentlemen of the long robe: "Why, there are
two of you!"

"Naturally," replied de Naarboveck: "Did not your colleague let you know
that my secretary had joined me?"

"I knew he was coming, but I did not understand that he had already come,"
replied the man.

De Naarboveck laughed.
CHAPTER PAGE 338

"We leave together--what more natural?"

"It is your right," grumbled the man: "Have you finished your interrogation
of the accused Fandor?"

As he asked this pertinent question, the jailor made a movement to enter the
prison and make sure that the prisoner's cell was locked. De Naarboveck
caught his arm.

"Look here, my man," said he, slipping a silver coin into the jailor's hand:
"We are not suitably dressed for the street, and our ordinary clothes are at
the Palais de Justice. Will you be kind enough to stop a cab for us? We can
get into it at the courtyard entrance!"

The jailor decided that he could safely postpone his visit to Fandor's cell.
He went out into the courtyard with the two apparent advocates. Standing
on the step of the courtyard gate he looked out for a passing cab.

A taxi-driver scented customers. He drove alongside the pavement. In a

moment de Naarboveck and Fandor were seated inside it, and, whilst
waving his hand to the respectful and gratified warder, he instructed the
driver in a clear voice:

"To the Palais de Justice!"

As soon as they reached the rue de Rennes, de Naarboveck changed his

destination....

*****

He turned to Fandor.

"Well, Monsieur Fandor, what have you to say to this?"

"Ah, Baron, how can I ever express my gratitude?"

CHAPTER PAGE 339

De Naarboveck smiled.... He gazed at the journalist. There was something

in the situation he found amusing....

Following the baron's directions, the taxi went up the rue Lapic, and
reached the heights of Montmartre. It stopped at last in a little street, dark
and deserted, before a wretched-looking house, whose front was vaguely
outlined in a small neglected garden.

De Naarboveck paid the driver, passed under a dark arch, crossed the
garden, and reached a kind of lodge. He let himself in, followed by Fandor.
They went up a cork-screw staircase to the floor above. De Naarboveck
switched on a light, and Fandor saw that he and his rescuer were in a studio
of vast proportions, well furnished.

Thick curtains hung before a large glass bay: it was a lofty room with very
slightly sloping walls.

Two or three rooms must have been thrown into one, for several thick
supporting columns of iron crossed the middle of the studio.

Fandor failed to find either piece of furniture or picture he could recognise:

everything in the place was new to him.

De Naarboveck had slipped off his gown at once. He was in elegant

evening dress.

Fandor also threw off the advocate's gown. He wore the black trousers de
Naarboveck had brought him, but was in his shirt sleeves. The Vinson
uniform had been left in the cell.

Having sufficiently enjoyed the surprise of his protégé, the baron asked:

"Do you know where we are, Monsieur Fandor?"

"I have not the remotest idea."

CHAPTER PAGE 340

"Think a little!"

"I do not know in the least; that is a fact!"

"Monsieur," said de Naarboveck, coming close to Fandor, as though he was

afraid of being overheard: "You know, at least, by name a certain enigmatic
individual who plays an important part in the affairs of which we both are
victims, in different ways.... I will no longer hide from you that we are in
this individual's house!"

"And," gasped Fandor, "this individual is called?"...

"He is called Vagualame!"

"Vagualame!"

Fandor was aghast! Had the devil himself appeared before him he could not
have been more dumbfounded. Vagualame, the agent of the Second
Bureau--Vagualame, whom Fandor, for some time past, had taken to be a
spy with more than one string to his bow--it was he, then, who was the
author of the crimes for whom search was being made, in whose stead
Fandor himself was suffering humiliation and imprisonment, with further
dreadful possibilities to come! Fandor recalled his conversation with Juve
the day after Captain Brocq's assassination: in the course of their
conversation Juve had asserted that Fantômas was the criminal.

Fandor himself had not followed the mysterious evolutions of this sinister
accordion player as had Juve; but now he wondered whether there might
not be a connection between Vagualame and Fantômas.... All this was
obscure: Fandor felt he was groping amid dark mysteries....

De Naarboveck was moving hither and thither in the studio: at the same
time he was observing Fandor, listening to what he had to say: he seemed
to be reading Fandor's thoughts.
CHAPTER PAGE 341

"Your friend, Juve, has been hotly pursuing this Vagualame for some time,"
remarked De Naarboveck: "Famous detective as he is, he has suffered more
than one check, has been routed, rebuffed, discomfited, on several
occasions by this same Vagualame, who has proved that he is not such a
fool as he looks! Possibly Juve will soon have a further opportunity of
realising the truth of this--however."...

Fandor interrupted:

"I hope my friend, my dear friend, Juve, does not run any risk!... I beg of
you, Monsieur, to tell me whether he is in danger!... You see, I am free
now."...

"Attention, Monsieur Fandor!" de Naarboveck cut in. "Bear in mind that

you are an escaped prisoner, that your flight must not be known! Be on
your guard, then! As to your friend, Juve, be reassured on that point!"

Abruptly he changed the subject.

"Vagualame had a collaborator, a young person whom you

know--Mademoiselle Berthe, called Bobinette.... Bobinette has done
wrong, very wrong, but we will speak no more of her--peace to her
memory--she has expiated her crime!"

"Is Bobinette dead, then?" asked Fandor.... Immediately a conviction seized

him that the girl had fallen a victim to this mysterious assassin whom no
one could lay hands on.

The studio clock struck ten.

The lights went out.

Fandor stood startled, in deepest darkness.

Before he could utter an exclamation, move a finger, he was swathed in a

cloth, seized, bound, with the utmost brutality. Mysterious hands fixed a
CHAPTER PAGE 342

supple mask on his face, pressed something on his head. Dragged violently
along, the cords cutting his flesh, Fandor realised his attackers were
fastening him to something which held him stiffly upright. It must be one
of the iron columns.

Fandor thought he heard a receding voice mutter: "As Bobinette died, so

shalt thou die--through Fantômas!"

Had he heard aright? Was it some illusion of sense and brain?... Was it not
he himself who had cried it? For Fandor, whose mind had been full of
Vagualame, had, at the moment of attack, spontaneously thought of
Fantômas.

Fandor strained at his bonds and thought of the baron.

"Naarboveck--To me! Help!" he shouted.

No answer came through the darkness.

Did he hear a distant, stifled groan?

Dazzling light flooded the studio.

Fandor, who could see through the eyeholes of the mask, supple as skin,
stared about him with intense curiosity.

This extraordinary studio revealed a blood-freezing spectacle.

Facing him, immobile, rigid, was stationed a being whom Fandor had had a
fleeting glimpse of two or three times in his life. He had seen this enigmatic
and formidable being under circumstances so tragic, on occasions so
phenomenal, that this being's outline was graven on his memory for ever!

There was the cloak of many folds, dense black; the hooded mask, the large
soft hat shading the eyes; the strange inimitable outline!... Fandor was
facing Fantômas!
CHAPTER PAGE 343

Fantômas!

With bent shoulders and straining muscles, Fandor made desperate attempts
to free himself, the while his eyes were fixed on the terrifying apparition
confronting him!

It was a mocking Fantômas he saw; for the abominable bandit was mocking
him--was imitating his every gesture to the life!...

Fandor's gaze was fixed in an observing stare....

Did he not see cords binding the limbs of Fantômas? cords binding him
about the middle, constricting his whole body?

Was he in some hell nightmare?... Was he mad?... Who was this facing
him?... Why, himself!...

Fandor, whose image was reflected in a mirror facing him a yard or two
away! Fandor had been endowed with the outline of--Fantômas!...

From the throat of this Fandor-Fantômas issued a long-drawn howl of rage!

XXXIII

RECONCILIATION

"Which do you prefer, Mademoiselle? The multi-coloured cockades or the

bows of ribbon in one shade? We have both in satin of the best quality."

Wilhelmine de Naarboveck hesitated. The representative from "The Ladies'

Paradise" continued:

"The cockades of various colours do very well: they are gay, look bright;
but the bows of ribbon also produce an excellent effect--so distinguished!
Both articles are in great demand."
CHAPTER PAGE 344

Wilhelmine answered at random:

"Oh, put in half of each!"

"And what quantity, Mademoiselle?"

"Oh, three hundred will be sufficient, I should think."

The shopwoman displayed her assortment of cotillion objects. She did her
part ably. But Wilhelmine de Naarboveck gave but a perfunctory attention
to this choosing of cotillion accessories.

The saleswoman was more and more astonished. She considered that were
her customer's orders executed to the letter she would have the oddest
assortment of cotillion accessories that could be imagined. She adroitly
called Wilhelmine's attention to this.

Realising that she had been giving orders at random, the absent-minded girl
came to a decision.

"We have every confidence in your house being able to supply us with a
cotillion complete in every detail. You know better than I what is
necessary. I will leave it to you, then, to see that everything is done as well
as possible."

The saleswoman was full of delighted protestations. Though satisfied with

a decision that simplified her task, she was surprised that a young girl as
free to act and order as Mademoiselle de Naarboveck seemed to be, did not
take interest in the details of a fête which, as rumour had it, was given in
her honour.

"Ah!" said the young woman, as she collected the patterns scattered over a
table in the hall, "if all our customers were like you, Mademoiselle, and
allowed us to carry out our own ideas, we should do marvellous things!"

Wilhelmine smiled, but--would this saleswoman never have done!

CHAPTER PAGE 345

"Of course, Mademoiselle, we make similar ribbons for you and your
partner; but would you kindly tell me if the gentleman is tall or short? It is
better to make the ribbons of a length proportionate to the height."

This question troubled Wilhelmine.... The leader of the cotillion should

have been Henri de Loubersac. Was not their betrothal to have been
announced at the ball?... But the painful interview at Saint-Sulpice seemed
to have put an end to all relations between them!

Who, then, would lead with her?

Little she cared!

"Really, Madame," replied Wilhelmine to the woman, who was astonished

at her indifference: "I do not know how tall or short my partner is, for the
very good reason that I do not know who he is!... Provide, then, a set of
ribbons which may suit anybody!"

When the representative of "The Ladies' Paradise" had taken her departure,
Wilhelmine went up to the library. Except for the stiff and solemn
household staff, Wilhelmine was alone in the house. Her father was still
absent: Mademoiselle Berthe had vanished.

The house was turned upside down from top to bottom. Decorators and
electricians were in possession. Hammering had been going on all the
afternoon. Furniture had been displaced, pushed hither and thither. The hall
had been denuded of all but the table; even the privacy of the library had
been invaded--and all in preparation for the ball of the day after to-morrow,
to which the baron de Naarboveck had invited the highest personages of the
aristocratic and official worlds.

What a lively interest Wilhelmine had at first taken in this fête!

The baron was giving it to set a public seal on his diplomatic position, for
hitherto he had not been definitely attached to his embassy; now he was to
be the accredited ambassador of a certain foreign power. Also he intended
CHAPTER PAGE 346

to announce the betrothal of the young couple.

Alas! this latter project had suffered shipwreck!

As Wilhelmine sat in lonely state in the library, she saw a dismal future
opening before her. Not only had her heart been torn by the brusque rupture
with Henri de Loubersac, but everything which made up her home life,
such as it was, seemed falling to pieces.... No doubt the diplomat was
obliged to be continually absent, but Wilhelmine suffered from this
solitude, this abandonment.... She had become attached to the gay and
companionable Mademoiselle Berthe, who had been the life and soul of the
house. She had disappeared: no tidings of her doings or whereabouts had
reached Wilhelmine. There must be some very serious reason for this....

The mysterious occurrences of the past weeks had altered her world, shaken
it to its insecure foundations, and inevitably affected her outlook. Life
seemed a melancholy thing: how gloomy, how helpless her outlook!

More than ever before she felt in every fibre of her being that she was not
the daughter of the baron de Naarboveck, that she was indeed Thérèse
Auvernois. But what a fatal destiny must be hers! An existence open to the
attacks of misfortune, at the mercy of a being, enigmatic, indefatigable,
who, time and again, had thrown his horrible influence across her destiny,
was throwing it now--the sinister Fantômas!

Wilhelmine was torn from her miserable reflections by the irruption of a

domestic, who announced:

"Monsieur de Loubersac is asking if Mademoiselle can receive him!"

Wilhelmine rose from the divan on which she had been reclining. In an
expressionless voice she said:

"Show him in."

CHAPTER PAGE 347

When the young officer of cuirassiers appeared, his air was embarrassed,
his head was bent.

"You here, Monsieur?" Wilhelmine's voice and manner expressed

indignation.

But Henri de Loubersac was no longer the arrogant unbeliever of the

Saint-Sulpice interview.

"Excuse me!" he murmured.

"What do you want?" demanded Wilhelmine, her head held high.

"Your forgiveness," he said in a voice barely audible.

De Loubersac had come to his senses.

His intense jealousy had distorted his judgment.

Desperate after the Saint-Sulpice interview, when, so it had seemed to him,

Wilhelmine had avoided a categorical denial of his accusation regarding her
liaison with Captain Brocq, the frantic lover had flown to Juve and had
poured out his soul to the sympathetic detective.

Juve had shown himself no sceptic. He believed Wilhelmine's story and

statements. They coincided with his own prognostications: they explained
why Wilhelmine went regularly to pray at Lady Beltham's tomb: they
corroborated his conjectures, they confirmed his forecasts.

If he did not confess it to de Loubersac, he knew in his own mind that these
statements indicated that between this Baron de Naarboveck and the
redoubtable bandit he was pursuing so determinedly there was some
connection, possibly as yet unfathomed, but in his heart of hearts he
believed he had lighted on the truth. His conviction that de Naarboveck and
Fantômas had relations of some sort dated from the night of his own arrest
as Vagualame in the house of de Naarboveck. He had gone further than
CHAPTER PAGE 348

that.

"Yes," he had said to himself: "de Naarboveck must be a manifestation of

Fantômas!"

Corporal Vinson's revelations regarding the den in the rue Monge had but
strengthened Juve's impression. He had said to himself after that, "De
Naarboveck, Vagualame, Fantômas, are but one."

Juve had reassured de Loubersac: he declared that Wilhelmine had spoken

the truth, that she certainly was Thérèse Auvernois and the most honest girl
in the world.

Juve calmed and finally convinced de Loubersac.

It only remained for the repentant lover to reinstate himself in Wilhelmine's

good graces--if that were possible. Now, more ardently than ever before, he
desired to make Wilhelmine his wife. See her, be reconciled to her, he
must!

He arrived at a favourable moment. The poor girl, lonely and alone, was a
prey to the most gloomy forebodings. Life had lost all its savour. She was
in the depths of despair.

De Loubersac, standing before her, as at a judgment bar, again implored her

forgiveness.

"Oh, how I regret the brutal, wounding things I said to you, Wilhelmine!"
he murmured humbly, sorrowfully.

The innocent girl, so bitterly wronged by his thoughts and words,

crimsoned with indignation at the memory of them. Her tone was icy.

"I may be able to forgive you, Monsieur, but that is all you can hope for."
CHAPTER PAGE 349

"Will you never be able to love me again?" begged Henri, with the humble
simplicity of a boy.

"No, Monsieur." Wilhelmine's voice was hard.

It was all Henri could do not to burst into tears of humiliation and despair.

"Wilhelmine--you are cruel!... If you could only know how you are making
me suffer! Oh, I know I deserve to suffer! I recognise that!... All I can say
now is--Farewell!... Farewell for ever!"

Wilhelmine sat silent, her face hidden in her hands.

Henri went on:

"I leave Paris shortly. I have asked for an exchange. I am to be sent to

Africa, to the outposts of Morocco. I shall carry with me the memory--how
cherished--of your adorable self, dearest of the dear!... It shall live in my
heart until the day when, if Heaven but hear my prayers, I shall die at the
head of my troops."

With that de Loubersac moved slowly to the door, overwhelmed by the

conviction that he had irreparably wounded the girl he adored, that he had
destroyed for ever the love she had borne him!

A stifled cry caught his ear.

"Henri!"...

"Wilhelmine!"

They were in each others' arms and in tears.

How the lovers talked! What plans they made! How happy would be their
coming life together! What bliss!
CHAPTER PAGE 350

Wilhelmine broke off:

"Henri, do you know that it is past midnight?"

"I seem only to have come!" cried her lover.

"Ah, but you should not have stayed so late, my Henri!... The baron is not
here. I am alone!... Indeed, indeed, you must go!"

"Oh," laughed the happy Henri: "Why, of course the baron is not here!"...

Wilhelmine, all smiles, shook a finger at Henri.

"Be off with you!... Do, do be off with you!"

"Wilhelmine!"...

"Henri!"...

The lovers kissed each other--a long, lingering kiss....

XXXIV

A FANTÔMAS TRICK

Fandor stared at himself with wild eyes....

He must be in an abominable dream, a mad nightmare!... He must be!...

What was behind all this? This outrage? This Vagualame, criminal
proprietor of this pavilion, was the author of it! To him he owed it that he
was thus bound, masked, disguised!

That sinister menace was still ringing in his ears: "Through Fantômas thou
shalt die!"
CHAPTER PAGE 351

Well, however it might come, Death came but once! He would await the
event!

Fandor's spirit rose once more--indomitable.

He closed his eyes.

He lived again, as might a drowning man, his hours of joy, of struggle, of

triumph, of defeat, of high endeavour: all the thick-packed hours of vivid
life. Ah, how Fantômas had haunted him from childhood onwards!

"'Tis but life's logic," he reflected: "I have fought Fantômas, and not always
has the victory been wholly his! More than once I have called check to
him! It is his turn to take revenge with the irrevocable checkmate. Well, I
have lost. I pay."

The heavy silence of the studio was loud with menace.

Surrounded by it, he awaited Death's coming, in whatever guise....

The studio door swung open noiselessly. Some twenty men appeared, all
clothed in black and masked in velvet. Their approach over the thickly
carpeted floor was soundless.

Fandor stared at these strange figures.

Solemnly, silently, they ranged themselves in a half circle facing Fandor.

He who was plainly the chief of them remained apart, arms crossed, head
high, considering Fandor. He spoke:

"Brothers! You have sworn to defend Russia, to defend Poland, by every

means in your power! Do you swear it still?"

The voices of the masked men vibrated as one:

"We swear it!"

CHAPTER PAGE 352

"Brothers, are you prepared to risk all for our Cause?"

"We are prepared."

The man who posed as chief came nearer his fellow-conspirators, who bent
their heads as he apostrophised them:

"Brothers, there is a man in Paris who has worked more harm to us than
have all the police in the world: a man who has stirred up against us the
indignant horror of public opinion by an accumulation of hideous crimes,
the responsibility for which he has cast on us!... This man I, Trokoff, have
vowed to deliver up to you, that you may wreak your vengeance on him!...
Look well, brothers! He is before you! I deliver him up to you!"

The conspirators, as one man, stared at Fandor.

A murmur issued from the mouths of these masked men; a murmur

breathing hate and menaces:

"Fantômas!... Fantômas!"

Fandor did not lose one detail of this scene.

"Ah," thought he, "the bandit's last trick!"

Trokoff was Fantômas! Fandor was sure of it! He was abusing the ardent
faith and trust of his disciples, this false apostle! Wishing to rid himself of
Fandor, he delivered him to the vengeance of his companions. Making him
pass for Fantômas, he drove them on to murder, thus thrusting on to them
responsibility for the crime, leaving them to reap what consequences might
follow from the journalist's assassination.

How Fandor longed to shout:

"I am not Fantômas! Your Trokoff is a traitor!"

CHAPTER PAGE 353

But how pull the scales from off eyes blinded by fanaticism? How to prove
to them he was not Fantômas? Who among them could recognise the
unknown, elusive bandit, Fantômas?

These Nihilists had for Trokoff an admiration beyond the bounds of reason.
How could he show up Trokoff as he really was?

It would be madness to attempt it!

For Fandor divined that behind the mask of Trokoff lurked the evil
countenance of Fantômas--Fantômas who was gloating over his confusion
and despair, rejoicing in his agony, counting on his collapse, hoping for
some act of cowardice.

Never would Jérôme Fandor play the coward!

At this stake to which they had bound him he would die without a sound!
Fandor drove back from his lips the cry of despair they were about to utter.
He awaited the event.

A Nihilist broke from the circle, went up to Fandor.

"Fantômas! You have heard? You are about to die! What have you to say in
your defence?"

Fandor was dumb.

"Fantômas! You would die unknown! But it is good that we, having gazed
on your face, should be appeased when we see you dead!... Your hood and
mask--I tear them off you!"

Trokoff rushed forward, crying:

"Do not lay hands on him!... This wretch belongs to me!"

Turning to his fellow-conspirators, Trokoff demanded:

CHAPTER PAGE 354

"My hand should strike the fatal blow! I brought him here! The right is
mine!"

Trokoff continued, in a quieter tone:

"The police may have been warned of our gathering here! We are spied on,
tracked! You know it well!... Suppose we stay to watch the dying agony of
this wretch! Suppose the police descend upon us! They will snatch from us
our just revenge and will arrest us all!... Hand over this monster to me and
leave the place. If the police are watching you they will see you go!...
Leave Fantômas to me, that, at my leisure, I may see him die as he deserves
to die!"

Fandor shuddered: so a lingering agony, a fearful death was to be faced!...

Yes, Fantômas meant to torture him, extract from his victim some appeal
for pity, for the mercy this monster in human form could never know nor
exercise! Yes, Fantômas had changed his plans: rid of the Nihilists, he
could have it all his own way with Fandor!

The disciples, as with one voice, cried:

"We are thy faithful followers. What thou ordainest that we do!"...

Trokoff turned to Fandor. He shook a threatening fist in Fandor's face.

"Collect yourself.... You are to pay the price of expiation soon!"

This menace hurled at his victim, Trokoff drew his fanatical partisans
together, made them quit the studio, and vanished with them....

"He will return," thought Fandor: "And then it is all up with me! Courage to
face the worst!"

The door of the studio had barely closed on Trokoff and his dupes when
Fandor heard a breathless murmur at his ear.
CHAPTER PAGE 355

"Quick! Quick! Fandor! Trokoff, you have guessed it, is Vagualame! Is

Fantômas!... Cost what it may we must get the mastery of him!"

Fandor could not turn his head, but he felt his bonds were being loosened....
A minute or two and he was free! He took a staggering step or two: his
limbs were stiff and numb.... Close to him, watching his first difficult
movements with an expression of ardent sympathy, our journalist
perceived--Naarboveck....

"You," said he.

"I!... Fandor, I will explain!... Hold! Here is a revolver!... Ah! the bandits!...
They took me too! Me also they have condemned to death! But I managed
to escape!... Look out! He returns! We will fall upon Trokoff!... We will
avenge ourselves!"

A heavy step was heard on the stairs; someone was mounting hurriedly....
Trokoff was about to reappear....

Fandor grasped the revolver de Naarboveck had just handed to him. He

bounded to the door, ready to leap on the entering man.

De Naarboveck was ambushed on the side opposite to Fandor.

Suddenly Fandor shouted:

"Do not kill him! If it is Fantômas, we must take him alive!"

Before de Naarboveck had time to reply, the door was flung back against
him, thus putting him out of action for the moment.

Fandor shot forward, seized Trokoff by the throat, and, rolling on the floor
with him, yelled:

"To me, Naarboveck! Fantômas, you are taken! Yield!"

CHAPTER PAGE 356

Fandor's grip and spring had been so sudden that Trokoff had not been able
to defend himself. He and Fandor struggled, twisted, writhed, in a terrible
embrace; panting, livid, with eyes of hate and horror!

De Naarboveck had laid hold of Trokoff, shouting:

"You shall die! You must die!"

This frightful struggle lasted but a few moments. Trokoff managed to free
himself from Fandor's grip. The stupefied journalist heard a familiar voice
crying:

"Look out, Fandor! It is Naarboveck we must take! Go it! Go it!"

The studio was plunged in darkness: a door banged: Fandor staggered,

driven violently back into the middle of the studio. He felt a man was
rushing away.

"He escapes! He escapes!"

Fandor did not know who had remained with him, who, had fled, whether
he was on his head or his heels!... It was a momentary bewilderment; for
the voice he had heard when the struggle was at its height was still
speaking, calm, mocking.... It was the voice of Juve, saying:

"How exasperating!... These matches are no good at all!... Ah!... this one
has decided to catch!"

In the uncertain light of the match flame Fandor perceived someone leaning
against the wall--it was Trokoff!--Trokoff, who calmly went up to a table,
took a candlestick, and lighted a candle! Throwing himself into an
arm-chair, this Trokoff asked:

"Well now? Why the devil are you got up as Fantômas, my lad?... For a
military prisoner this is not at all correct!"
CHAPTER PAGE 357

Could Fandor believe his ears? his eyes?

Trokoff was Juve!

Fandor looked so bewildered that Juve-Trokoff laughed a merry laugh.

"Come now, my Fandor, try to gather your wandering wits together a bit
and answer me!"

"You, Juve!... You are Juve!" gasped Fandor, exhausted in mind, and body
with the emotions he had experienced.

"So it happens," replied Juve: "Well, I see I must speak first as you do not
seem to be in a condition to talk!... Listen, then!...

"I know these Nihilists, who imagine I am their chief, Trokoff--that is my

latest transformation!... I learned this evening that these imbeciles,
believing they had got hold of Fantômas, were summoned here to-night to
pass judgment on the bandit.... I accompanied them as Trokoff, who had
called them together. When we entered, I can assure you that, bound to
your pillar, you made a striking figure of Fantômas!... You took in even
me--for a while! Luckily I noticed your hands, the only portions of you
visible, covered as you were in that confounded hooded thing they muffled
you up in.... You must know that the pattern of the veins on the hands is
absolutely characteristic and individual; so much so that the anthropometric
service in Vienna is entirely based on this principle!... That is how I
recognized you, my little Fandor. You can imagine that my one idea then
was to get rid of the Nihilists as soon as possible, and liberate you! But, by
Jove, when I returned, you and Naarboveck between you attacked me so
brutally that you nearly did for me! It was a narrow shave! He was
throttling me! Had you fired your revolver at me you would almost
certainly have killed me, and then you would have fallen a victim yourself
to."...

Juve stopped. He questioned Fandor with a look. "De Naarboveck!... De

Naarboveck, who is Fantômas," replied Fandor, who now understood the
CHAPTER PAGE 358

situation.

Juve crossed his arms.

"It is as you say. Vagualame, Naarboveck, Fantômas, are one and the same:
and, be sure of this, we have not set eyes on the real face of Fantômas yet,
for de Naarboveck is as much made up for the part as he is when playing
Vagualame!... Also."...

"Juve! Juve!" interrupted Fandor.... "We are mad to stay talking like this!...
Naarboveck has just vanished. He is certain to go to his place even if,
feeling he is unmasked, he has decided to disappear forever. Do not let him
escape! Juve, for Heaven's sake, hurry!"

Juve did not stir.

"How very violent you are, and how simple, my little Fandor! Look now, it
is quite three minutes since de Naarboveck disappeared from here, and you
imagine there is still time to catch him?... It is childish!"...

"But Juve! I tell you de Naarboveck must return to his house! Let us put a
watch on him and trap him!"

Juve's voice trembled as he made answer:

"We cannot arrest de Naarboveck!"...

"Why?... What do you mean?"...

"Because, though I have the right to place my hand on the collar of

Fantômas, I have no power to arrest de Naarboveck!"...

Fandor's reply to this was an uncomprehending stare.

"It's Greek to you, I see! Trust me, Fandor! At present I have no right to
reveal this secret, but, take my word for it, Naarboveck is inviolable!"
CHAPTER PAGE 359

Fandor understood that this was an official secret which Juve was not at
liberty to divulge.

"Ye Gods!" he exclaimed.

"Bah! The game is not lost yet, Fandor, my boy! I have still a card to play
against his, and I play it this very night.... Enough of that for the moment! I
am dying to know how you, whom I believed peacefully reposing at
Cherche-Midi, happen to be playing the part of Fantômas in deserted
studios!"

Juve's coolness was infectious. Fandor was himself again. He told Juve the
story of his escape. At the close he asked abruptly:

"Now what are we going to do?"

Juve shook his head.

"Attention, my lad! Don't mix up the questions!... What am I going to do?...

What are you going to do?... You, Fandor, ought to return to Cherche-Midi
straight away, and ask them to put you back in your cell. That is the wise
thing to do, believe me, dear lad!... To get away like that was a mistake--a
very grave mistake--the falsest of false moves.... To escape is equivalent to
pleading guilty.... You are innocent.... Return, then, to your prison ... I can
promise you that you will not remain there long."

"And you, Juve?"

Juve rose, yawned.

"Oh!... It is a nuisance, but I must get into evening dress ... and that I do not
like ... I must go by train, too--confound it all!"...

*****
CHAPTER PAGE 360

In a sumptuously decorated study an elegantly clad Juve was listening to a

personage. This personage was addressing our detective in a tone at once
friendly and haughty.

"No. It is not possible. It is asking too much of me! You do not take into
consideration, Juve, the many complications which such an intervention on
my part would give rise to if, by chance, you are mistaken.... I have the
greatest confidence in you, Juve, I know your ability: I have had proof of
your loyalty: I have experienced your devotion, but--you are not
infallible!... The story you have told me is so strange, so--improbable, that I
have to take into consideration the possibility of there having been some
mistake, some blunder. I have to consider the terrible consequences to
which I should expose myself in such a case!"...

Juve frowned slightly.

"With all respect, I should like to point out to Your Majesty that it is a mere
question of a signature to be given."...

"A signature, Juve, which commits me, my kingdom! It might fan the
flame! Worse: it might put a match to the powder magazine."

"Your Majesty might consider that by such a signature the thing would be
settled."

"Juve! For the hundredth time I repeat I cannot give you this order!
However far back in our annals you might go, I am convinced you could
not find a precedent for this!"

"Your Majesty will not forget that with his name, a line of his writing, all
difficulties would be cleared away."

"Oh, as to that!... Have you considered that if this decree be unmerited, this
document will be a shameful one, and will reflect shame not only on me but
on my country? Do you not know that a king has no right to put his
signature, his seal to an injustice?"
CHAPTER PAGE 361

"Sire, I know that a king should be Justice! Sire, I know I ask nothing Your
Majesty may not grant! Sire, I have urged, entreated! But Your Majesty
must excuse me when I say that I am no longer a suppliant.... Your Majesty
understands me?... It is Juve who requests the signature of Your Majesty!"

The king was visibly hesitating. At last he replied:

"I understand you, Juve. You would remind me of that official visit to Paris
when you saved my life and the life of my queen at the risk of your own. I
told you then that I should never refuse you anything you asked of me! It is
to that you allude, is it not?"

"Sire, I should never call upon your Majesty to pay a debt you did not
acknowledge.... I did not then foresee that a decree from Your Majesty
would prove the solution of the most formidable problem I have ever had to
solve! I would far rather not recall the debt.... Your Majesty has forced me
to remind you of your given word."...

The king had risen and was pacing the room.

"If I grant you this decree, Juve, will you take it to the Chancellor's Office
as soon as you reach Paris?"

"Yes, Sire!"

"You will not wait, Juve, to have further proofs of what you assert?"

"No, Sire!"

"I must, then, rely solely on your word for it, your certainty, your
conviction?"

"Yes, Sire!"

"Juve! Juve! If you exact this in the name of the promise I once made you, I
will sign this decree for you--but--you will forfeit my friendship! You will
CHAPTER PAGE 362

have taken my good faith by storm! Decide then, Juve! Exact this--I grant it
you!"

There was a silence.... Juve broke it.

"Surely Your Majesty does not wish to put me on the horns of such a
dilemma? Lose Your Majesty's friendship, confidence, or let pass a unique
opportunity?"

"Yes, Juve.... That is what I wish."

"In that case, Sire, I do not exact payment! But Your majesty is breaking to
pieces all that my life means! Sire, my own honour wills it that I bring this
business to a conclusion, cost what it may! With Your Majesty's support it
was possible.... With only my own resources to depend on all is lost!"

It evidently cost the king something not to give Juve the satisfaction he
implored.

"Juve, this is cruel! I would rather you had exacted the decree.... But all is
not ended.... I will order an investigation in a fortnight's time."...

"In a fortnight's time? Your Majesty knows it will be too late."

The king continued his pacing up and down. He was considering the
question.

"Juve, can you bring me face to face with this man? Can you convict him of
his imposture in my presence?"

"What exactly does Your Majesty mean?"

"I mean, Juve, that whatever might be the scandal, the humiliation it might
result in for me, I would grant you here and now the decree you claim if I
were assured that you had not made a mistake.... You bring me
suppositions, Juve, but no proofs! Arrange so that this man throws off his
CHAPTER PAGE 363

mask, if but for an instant, and I will allow your justice to take its course!...
Juve, forget that you are speaking to a king: think of me as your friend!...
Whatever the risks to be run, can you bring us face to face under such
conditions that the truth will be apparent to me?"

Juve reflected. He raised his head and looked at the king.

"Your Majesty," said he slowly: "I am going to ask you to take an

extraordinary step.... I am going to ask Your Majesty to perhaps risk your
life. I am going to ask Your Majesty."...

Juve's emotion was such that he could scarcely speak. Mastering it, he said
in a low voice:

"I am going to ask Your Majesty to accompany me in three days' time ...
when."...

XXXV

AT THE COUNCIL OF WAR

"The Council, gentlemen!... Stand up!"

"Shoulder--arms!"

"Rest--arms!"

The seven military judges of the Council of War advanced solemnly, in

single file. They were in full dress uniform--sabres, epaulettes, regulation
plumes on helmets and caps. With all due ceremony they took their
respective places at a long green-covered table.

This opened at one o'clock, on the afternoon of the twenty-eighth of

December. The president was a colonel of dragoons, a smart,
distinguished-looking man, whose fair hair was slightly tinged with grey at
the temples.
CHAPTER PAGE 364

On the right of the tribunal, before a bureau piled with voluminous case
papers, was seated Commandant Dumoulin, redder in the face than ever.
The place next him was filled by Lieutenant Servin, who showed himself
the very pink of correctness and meticulous elegance. Seated near the
lieutenant was a white-haired officer acting as clerk of court.

The government commissioners had their backs to the court windows

which looked on to a very large garden; facing them was the dock, guarded
by two soldiers with fixed bayonets; behind the dock was the table which
stood for the bar where the counsel for the defence would plead.

The centre of the room was occupied by an enormous cast-iron stove,

shedding cinders on every side, whose ancient pipes were scaly with age.

Behind the line of soldiers cutting the room in two were narrow seats and
still narrower desks, where the representatives of the legal press were
seated as best they could.

Behind the journalists pressed a tightly packed crowd, restless, overflowing

with curiosity, leaning on the press-men's shoulders, peering between their
heads, for whom the authorities had shown but scant consideration, and for
whom the poorest accommodation was provided.

All Paris had done their possible to be present, begging cards of

admittance, a favour which could be granted to a very limited number.

As soon as the interest aroused by the appearance of the members of the

Council of War had died down the crowd's attention was concentrated on
the hero of this sensational adventure: his doings had been the one
prevailing topic of conversation during the past few days.

Jérôme Fandor, modest, reserved, appeared indifferent to the mute

questioning of the hundreds of eyes focussed on him. Our journalist wore
Corporal Vinson's uniform. He had begged the authorities to let him appear
in civilian clothes: demands and entreaties had been so much breath
wasted.
CHAPTER PAGE 365

The counsel assigned him was a shining light of the junior bar, Maître
Durul-Berton.

The audience on the whole was favourably disposed towards this

well-known contributor to La Capitale. They knew that on many occasions
this well-informed journalist had rendered immense services to honest folk
and to society in general by placing his intelligence and energy at the
service of every good cause.

Then there was one strong indisputable point in his favour. Though he had
escaped from prison with the help of an unknown person, he had returned,
had given himself up, declaring he would not leave the Council of War
except by the big door with head held high, his innocence established.

The president announced:

"We shall now call the names of the witnesses."

There was silence in the court-room while a sergeant who filled the office
of crier to the court, read out the names from a list in his hands. The
call-over lasted ten minutes. Most of the witnesses were officers and men
belonging to the garrisons of Verdun and Châlons.

Among these witnesses as they defiled before the tribunal Fandor

recognised some whose faces were graven on his memory during his brief
sojourn in the Saint Benoit barracks.

The first call resounded through the court-room:

"Inspector Juve!"

Juve approached the tribunal, proved he was present, then, in conformity

with the law, left the court-room, as did the other witnesses called.

The presence of Juve reassured and comforted Fandor. Had not Juve said to
him:
CHAPTER PAGE 366

"You must face your judges, little son; but I am greatly deceived if a certain
incident which will occur in the course of the hearing will not alter the
speech for the government from the first to the last!"

More than this Juve could not be got to say: he had put on his most
enigmatic manner and closed his lips.

The president of the Council addressed Fandor:

"Accused! Stand up!"

The president stared hard at the prisoner with his pale clear eyes like
porcelain expressing neither thoughts nor feelings.

Fandor stood erect, waiting.

An hour had gone by.

Juve, the first witness called, was finishing his evidence. Of all the
witnesses, he alone could give precise details which would confirm or
nullify Fandor's statements.

Juve had given a rapid sketch of Fandor's adventurous career, but had
carefully omitted to mention that Fandor's real name was Charles
Rambert.[11]

[Footnote 11: See Fantômas Series: vols. i, ii, iii.]

His defence of his friend was a eulogy.

Nevertheless, the revelations of Juve did not simplify the problem as

regards the grave charges of murder and spying brought against the
prisoner.

When Juve had finished his panegyric, the president spoke to the point:
CHAPTER PAGE 367

"All this is very well, gentlemen, very well--but the affair grows more and
more complicated, and who will come forward to elucidate it?"

From the back of the court came a sound, sharp-cut, clear:

"I!"

The sensation was immense. Members of the Council looked at one

another. There was a disturbance at the back of the room: the crowd
swayed, and peered, and whispered.

The colonel-president frowned. He scrutinised the close-packed swaying

mass. He shot a question at it.

"Who spoke?"

Sharp, distinct, a monosyllable was shot back.

"I!"

Someone, pushing a way through the audience, was approaching the

military tribunal.

A murmur rose from the crowd.

"Silence!" shouted the colonel. He swept the crowd with an angry eye: he
threatened.

"I warn you! At the least manifestation, favourable or otherwise, I shall

have the room cleared: we are not here to amuse ourselves. I do not
authorise anyone, either by gesture or by speech, to comment on what is
taking place within these walls."

Having obtained comparative quiet, the colonel looked squarely at the

person who had approached the witness-stand and was facing the military
tribunal.
CHAPTER PAGE 368

This would-be witness was a young woman, elegantly clad. She wore black
furs, and a dark veil partially concealing her features, but revealing the
strange pallor of her face. The audience, who had a view of the newcomer's
back, noted her masses of tawny red hair, set off by a fur toque.

The colonel put her to the question at once.

"You are the person who said 'I'?"

The young woman was greatly moved, but she answered firmly:

"Yes, Monsieur. That is so."

"Who are you, Madame?"

The witness collected her forces, pressed her hand to her heart as though to
still its frantic beating: paused. In a clear strong voice she made her
declaration:

"I am Mademoiselle Berthe: I am better known as Bobinette."

Exclamations from the crowd, craning necks, peering eyes, murmurs.

When the excitement was suppressed, the colonel interrogated Bobinette.

"Why have you taken upon yourself to interrupt the proceedings of the
court?"

"You asked, Monsieur, who could clear up this unfortunate affair. I am

ready to tell you everything. Not only is it a duty imposed on me by my
conscience, it is also my most ardent wish."

The judges were in earnest consultation. Commandant Dumoulin was

shaking his head. He was angrily opposed to this witness being heard, a
witness who had appeared so inopportunely to trouble the majesty of the
sitting.
CHAPTER PAGE 369

The counsel for the defence intervened.

"Monsieur the president, I have the honour to request an immediate hearing

for this witness.... It is your absolute right, Monsieur the president: you
have full discretionary powers."

"And if I oppose it?" growled the commandant behind his desk, with a
vicious glance at the defender of his adversary.

Maître Durul-Burton replied with calm dignity:

"If you oppose it, Monsieur the commissaire, I shall have the honour of
immediately deposing on the bureau of this tribunal conclusive evidence
which will bring this sitting to a close forthwith."

An animated discussion ensued between the members of the council. It

resulted in the colonel's announcement:

"We will hear this witness."

He addressed Bobinette:

"You are allowed to speak, mademoiselle. Swear then to speak the truth,
the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Raise your right hand and say: 'I
swear it!'"

With a certain dignity Bobinette obeyed.

"I swear it!"

Then, in a low trembling voice, trembling from excess of emotion but not
from timidity, Bobinette began her story.

A child of the people, honestly brought up, she had not always followed the
straight path of virtue: there had been lapses. Intelligent, longing to learn,
she had been well educated, and had intended to take a medical degree....
CHAPTER PAGE 370

Again, at the hospital, she had succumbed to temptations, had led a life of
idleness, and had renounced all idea of working for her doctor's diploma.
Instead, she had become a hospital nurse.[12]

[Footnote 12: See Fantômas: vol. i, Fantômas Series.]

Here the colonel interrupted:

"What can these details matter to us, Mademoiselle? What we want to

know is not your own history, but that of the guilty person--information
pertinent to the case in hand."

In a strangely solemn voice, Bobinette replied:

"You would know the history of the guilty person?... Listen!"

The tribunal was impressed: the members, silent, attentive, let the witness
have her way.

Bobinette touched on the various stages of her life up to the day when she
came in contact with the Baron de Naarboveck. The care she had lavished
on the youthful Wilhelmine gained the gratitude of the rich diplomat and
his daughter. From that time they treated her as one of themselves: she
became Mademoiselle de Naarboveck's companion.

"Ah, cursed be that day!" cried Bobinette.... "Misfortunes, tragedies, date

from then. The worst is--I must confess it--I was the cause of them!"

"What do you mean by that?" interrupted Commandant Dumoulin.

"I mean to say that if Captain Brocq died by an assassin's hand, the blame is
mine!... I mean to say that if a confidential document disappeared from his
rooms, it is because I took it!... I was his mistress!... I am responsible for
his death!"
CHAPTER PAGE 371

There was a gasping silence: the sensation was intense. Juve, half hidden
behind the cast-iron stove, alone remained unmoved.

Bobinette continued:

"My evil genius, gentlemen, was a bandit of the worst kind: you know him
under the name of Vagualame. Vagualame, agent of the Second Bureau,
and officially a counter-spy. Quite so. But, gentlemen, Vagualame was
equally spying on France, a traitor in the pay of a foreign power: worse
still, he it was who assassinated Captain Brocq: you know he was the
murderer of the singer, Nichoune!...

"This Vagualame made of me his thing, his slave! Alas! I cannot pretend
that it was under the perpetual menace from this monster I became a traitor!
I have so many betrayals that must count against me: betrayal of my
country, betrayal of Captain Brocq's love for me! I robbed him in every
kind of way: I stole the document referring to the mobilisation scheme: I
stole his money--bank-notes--with the excuse that it was to put the police
on the wrong scent and make them believe it was an ordinary burglary.

"These notes, gentlemen, were found in the possession of the unfortunate

Jérôme Fandor. It seems they constitute an overwhelming charge against
him. Know then, that after having been stolen by my hands they were given
to Jérôme Fandor by one of our agents, for the purpose of compromising
the false Corporal Vinson.... But if I have acted thus, it was not so much
through a desire for the money they gave me for my treachery, not so much
for the fallacious promises of eventual riches which Vagualame was always
trying to dazzle me with--it was through rancour, spite, hate, it was through
love!"

Maître Durul-Burton rose and, bending towards the half-fainting Bobinette,

cried:

"Speak, speak, Mademoiselle!"

Bobinette went on slowly:

CHAPTER PAGE 372

"Through love--yes. And it is an avowal which touches me nearly, wounds

me in the depths of my soul, in my most intimate thoughts....

"Yes, I have given away to the vile suggestions of Vagualame, if I have let
myself be drawn by him into horrible by-paths of spying and treason, it is
owing to the spite and rage of an unrequited love, of an intense passion,
intense beyond expression, which I have felt for a man--a man whose heart
was given to another--for the betrothed of Mademoiselle de
Naarboveck--for Lieutenant Henri de Lou----"

The colonel-president, with a brusque gesture, interrupted this confession.

"Enough, Mademoiselle ... enough!... You are not to mention names here!...
Be good enough to continue your deposition only as it relates to facts
connected with spying."

Bobinette then recounted how she had consented to hide the famous gun
piece brought to her one day by Vagualame; how she had helped the bandit
to concoct the daring plan by which this piece was to be handed to a foreign
power; how she had disguised herself as a priest in order to take Corporal
Vinson to Dieppe. She did not know, at first, that she was dealing with
Jérôme Fandor. Enlightenment came through Vagualame's telegram. She
only then realised that the traitor Vinson and the soldier in her company
were two distinct persons.

"And," cried she, "who killed the real Corporal Vinson but a few days ago
in the rue du Cherche-Midi? I know. It was the murderer of Captain Brocq,
the murderer of the singer, Nichoune--it was Vagualame ... Vagualame!"
Bobinette was working herself up to a paroxysm of exasperation, shouting
out her revelations like an apostle who means to convince, shouting his
convictions as a martyr might at the worst moment of her anguish.

"Vagualame? You ask who he is, and you search among the thieves, the
receivers of stolen goods and light-fingered gentry, you search among the
secret agents, among that low unclean crowd which gravitates to your Staff
Offices and circulates about them, forever on the watch, on the prowl to
CHAPTER PAGE 373

surprise some secret, to buy over some conscience, to sell and bargain over
some purloined document!... Look higher than that, gentlemen--much
higher! Look higher than the Staff Offices, than the leaders in the political
world, than members of the Government, even--fix your attention on the
accredited representatives of foreign powers."...

Bobinette was unable to continue.... Commandant Dumoulin had been too

excited to remain in his seat. He rushed towards the witness, who was
making what he considered to be wild and outrageous statements: he put
his big hand over her mouth, effectually silencing her....

The commandant turned to the colonel, shouting:

"Colonel! Monsieur the president!... I demand that this case be now heard
in camera! Such accusations must not be heard in public!... I beg you to
order that the rest of this case be heard behind closed doors!"

The counsel for the defence rose in his turn, and in a calm tone, which
contrasted with the violence of Commandant Dumoulin, declared:

"I am in agreement with this demand, Monsieur the President.... Will you
order that the further hearing of this case be in camera?"

Here Commandant Dumoulin, to whom Lieutenant Servin had made a

suggestion, intervened anew:

"Monsieur the President, gentlemen, having regard to the grave declarations

made by this witness, I require her immediate arrest!"

Hardly had this demand been voiced when a loud cry rang out, electrifying
the whole court. Bobinette had swallowed the contents of a small phial
hidden in her muff!

Juve, guessing Bobinette's intention, had rushed to her, but, in spite of his
rapid action, he reached her only in time to receive the fainting girl in his
arms.
CHAPTER PAGE 374

"She has poisoned herself!" shouted Juve.

The public broke bounds, knocked over chairs and benches, rolled in a
surge of excited curiosity to the very feet of the Council of War, crowding
round this fresh centre of interest--Bobinette!

Fandor was too stunned by the avalanche of incidents to move.

"The hearing is suspended!" shouted the colonel in an angry voice. There

was nothing else to be done: the court was in an uproar!

It was nine in the evening, and a crowd as large and densely packed as
before awaited the verdict.

Since Bobinette attempted suicide--she had been removed to the infirmary

with the faint hope that life was not extinct and she might yet be saved--the
hearing had been conducted in camera. But the revelations of the guilty girl
had not only upset Dumoulin's course of procedure, but had also convinced
the judges of Fandor's innocence. He had once more explained why he had
concealed his identity beneath the uniform of Corporal Vinson.

The Council of War had come to the conclusion that they could not
consider Fandor accountable to their tribunal.

At nine o'clock then, after a short deliberation, the Council of War

delivered judgment through the mouth of its president, delivered judgment
according to the solemn formula, commencing thus:

"In the name of the French People!"

Jérôme Fandor was acquitted.

The news of his acquittal was received with hearty cheers.

*****
CHAPTER PAGE 375

Fandor was free.

Congratulations, hand-shakings, questions followed.

Mechanically he responded, though he had a smile for Lieutenant Servin

when he murmured, with a touch of irony:

"The judgment made no mention, Monsieur Fandor, of the clothes--the

borrowed clothes--you are wearing: but it seems to be established that they
do not belong to you. Be kind enough, then, to return them to the
authorities as soon as possible! Otherwise we shall be obliged to summon
you afresh for appropriation of military garments!"

The lieutenant had had his little joke, and departed laughing.

The crowd melted away. Only a few of Fandor's colleagues remained. To

them he talked more freely of his troubles and trials. Then Juve arrived on
the scene again. He was no longer the impassive listener of the trial: he was
friend Juve, beaming and joyous.

He embraced his dear Fandor effusively, murmuring:

"Now, old Fandor, this is not the moment to linger! We must be off
instanter. I shall see you to your flat, where you can change into clothes of
your own; for this evening we have our work cut out for us!"

"This evening?" Fandor's curiosity was aroused.

Juve, as they went off together, became mysterious.

"Ah! you will understand presently!"

XXXVI

AMBASSADOR!... ?...
CHAPTER PAGE 376

"Hurry up, Fandor! We must be off!... We shall be late!"

Jérôme Fandor slipped on his overcoat and took the stairs at a rush in the
wake of Juve.

"Well, I like that, old Juve! Here have I been waiting for you a good quarter
of an hour!... You will have to give the coachman an address, anyhow, and
that will tell me where you are taking me, why you have made me get into
evening clothes, and why you are in that unusual get-up yourself--it's
unheard of!"

"It is true, lad! I amuse myself making mysteries!... It is stupid.... Well,

Fandor, we are going to a ball."...

"A ball!"

"Yes--and I think we shall lead someone there a fine dance, or I am much

mistaken."

"Who, then?"

"The master of the house!"

"You speak in riddles, Juve!"

"Not at all! Do you know where we are going, Fandor, lad?"

"I ask you that, Juve."

"Well, then--we are going to the house of--Fantômas--to arrest him!"

"Ye gods and little fishes!" cried Fandor.

Juve crossed the pavement and jumped into a carriage, making room for his
dear lad beside him.
CHAPTER PAGE 377

"But, Juve," remonstrated Fandor: "You declared to me the other day that it
was impossible to arrest de Naarboveck--that he was inviolable--but you
did not tell me why.... Isn't that true?"

"It is true."

"And it is so no longer."

"It still is so."

After all he had been through, Fandor was in a state of high tension. He
caught Juve's hand and beat it with angry impatience.

"Don't quibble, Juve!... It is too deadly serious!... What do you really

mean?... We know that de Naarboveck is Fantômas, but you swore to me
that it is impossible to arrest Naarboveck. You still assert this: nevertheless,
you now declare that we are going to arrest Fantômas! What the deuce do
you mean?... I've had more than enough of your ironical mockery, old
man!"

Juve took out his watch and, with finger on the dial, said:

"Look! It is half past ten. We shall reach de Naarboveck's about a quarter

past eleven. It would be impossible for me to arrest him just then; but at a
quarter to twelve, midnight at latest, it will be quite easy for me to put my
hand on the collar of de Naarboveck--Fantômas! I shall not bungle it!"

"Juve! You and your mysteries are maddening!"

"My dear Fandor, do pardon me for not being more explicit. I told you
Naarboveck was out of reach as far as arresting him goes. I also told you
that we were going to arrest Fantômas. It is exact; because all that is
subordinate to a will--a will I happen to have at my command for the
moment, but also a will which may raise some preventing obstacle at the
last moment, and so stop me from capturing the bandit straight away,
enabling the monster to brazen it out in perfect safety."
CHAPTER PAGE 378

"Whose will, Juve?"

"My lad, do not question me further! I cannot say more."

Fandor desisted: Juve's sincerity was obvious.

"All serene, Juve! I leave it to you. Whatever happens. I shall try not to lose
sight of you. I shall stick to you like a leech--if you have need of me."

Juve held out his hands.

"Thanks, dear lad!"

With fast-beating hearts, thrilling with excitement, expectation, anxiety, the

friends embraced.

"You know, dear lad," said Juve in quiet tones: "We are going to risk our
skins?... I am sure of the final victory unless a stupid ball from a
revolver."...

Fandor was his old teasing self once more.

"Oh, that's all right! You are not going to frighten me with that old black
bogey of yours!"...

At this moment the carriage turned the corner at the end of the Alexander
bridge....

*****

The Baron de Naarboveck's mansion was brilliantly illuminated. The

much-talked-of fête was at its height.

Below, the spacious hall had been turned into a magnificent supper-room--a
veritable transformation scene--while dancers thronged the rooms above....
The end room only was deserted: it was the library. It had been made the
CHAPTER PAGE 379

receptacle of an overflow of furniture when the reception suite was cleared

for dancing.

An orchestra, concealed by foliage plants, discoursed seductive waltzes in

the principal ballroom, whilst crowds of lovely women and distinguished
men listened, chatted, and looked on.

Madame Paradel, wife of the Minister for Foreign Affairs, was talking to
her host. Observing Wilhelmine, all grace and smiles, she murmured:

"What a charming girl she is!"

Turning again to de Naarboveck, she remarked:

"But you must be in the depths of desolation, dear Baron! Have I not heard
that the young couple are leaving for the centre of Africa?"

"Oh, that is an exaggeration," laughed the Baron. "As a matter of fact, my

future son-in-law, de Loubersac, is leaving the Staff Office, and with the
rank of captain. His chiefs are sending him, not, as you think, to the wilds
of Central Africa, but only to Algiers! An excellent garrison!"

"Well, Baron, I like to think you will soon be paying a visit to your newly
married pair."

The Baron bowed, and, as Madame Paradel moved away, he went towards
the entrance of the gallery commanding a view of the hall and stairs.

The figures of two advancing guests had caught his eye.

In a tone at once enigmatic and perfectly correct, de Naarboveck accosted

them:

"You are among my guests, gentlemen."

CHAPTER PAGE 380

"That is obvious, is it not?" replied one of the new-comers.... "You may be

assured, Baron, that neither my friend Fandor nor I would have allowed
ourselves the liberty otherwise."...

"I know! I know, Monsieur Juve!... Besides--I was expecting you!" An

ironic smile curved the lips of de Naarboveck.

"We should have reproached ourselves, Baron, had we not come this
evening to offer you the felicitations to which you have a right."

"Really?... No doubt you refer to the marriage of Wilhelmine?"

"No, Baron. I reserve such congratulations for Monsieur de Loubersac and

Mademoiselle Thérèse--pardon, for Mademoiselle Wilhelmine."

When making this deliberate mistake in the name, Juve looked squarely at
the diplomat--but de Naarboveck made no sign.

"What, then, do you refer to, Monsieur Juve?" he asked.

"I mean, my dear Baron, that I have recently heard of your new office,
heard that your credentials have just been presented, heard that they will be
ratified to-morrow.... From this evening, Baron, are you not then the
representative of the kingdom of Hesse-Weimar?... I fancy, Monsieur the
Ambassador, that you are satisfied with this nomination?"

De Naarboveck, smiling that ironical smile, bowed.

"It carries with it some advantages, certainly."

"Among them, Baron, the privilege of inviolability--ah, that famous

inviolability!"

Juve laid stress on the word inviolability.

De Naarboveck did not seem to understand the insinuation conveyed.

CHAPTER PAGE 381

"It is quite true, Monsieur," he said in a matter-of-fact manner: "I do enjoy

the right of inviolability; it is one of the privileges attached to my office."
On a bantering note he added:

"An appreciable advantage, is it not?"

"Appreciable indeed!" was Juve's reply.

A wave of fresh arrivals surged up the grand staircase and separated the
speakers. The master of the house stepped forward to greet them, whilst
Fandor drew Juve by the sleeve into the corner of a window recess.
Speaking low, he asked:

"Juve! what is the meaning of this comedy?"

"Alas, Fandor! it is no comedy!"

"De Naarboveck is an ambassador?"

"For the kingdom of Hesse-Weimar, yes. He has been that for over a
week--since that evening we failed to arrest him in the rue Lepic."

"And he is inviolable?"

"Naturally. In conformity with international conventions, every

representative accredited to a foreign power as ambassador is an
untouchable, inviolable person--wherever he may be.... Therefore, Fandor,
when in this mansion, situated in the heart of Paris, we are no longer legally
in France, but in Hesse-Weimar. You can understand the kind of
consequences which must follow from such a state of things.... But all is
not over.... Ah! excuse me ... there is something I must see to
immediately!"...

Leaving Fandor, Juve made his way through innumerable dress-coats and
magnificent toilettes, moving with difficulty in the press.
CHAPTER PAGE 382

He approached a guest stationed apart, watching all that was going on about
him. This guest, who stood unobtrusively aloof, was a
distinguished-looking man of about thirty-five; he wore a blonde
moustache turned up German fashion.

Juve bowed low before this personage, and murmured with profound
deference:

"Ah, thank you, thank you for coming, Majesty!"

"Here, Monsieur, I am incognito--the Prince Louis de Kalbach: respect my

incognito and do whatever you have to do quickly. My presence in Paris is
not suspected. As you are aware, I am fortunately not known personally to
my--to this individual."

Juve was about to assure the king that his wishes would be respected, but
someone touched him on the arm. Juve, with a respectful inclination, turned
away.

"Ah, Monsieur Juve, how delighted I am to see you!... But I was

forgetting.... Monsieur Lépine was looking for you just now!"...

Juve was facing beaming Lieutenant de Loubersac.

"I will go to him at once ... but let me take this opportunity of
congratulating you, my dear Lieutenant."...

Juve slipped away to join the popular chief commissioner of police, who
was standing apart in the gallery overlooking the hall. Despite the amiable
smile he cultivated, Monsieur Lépine looked anxious.

"Juve, are you on duty here?" he asked.

"Yes and no, Monsieur."

Monsieur Lépine looked his surprise.

CHAPTER PAGE 383

"I will explain this to you later, Monsieur," said Juve.... "Things are still
very complicated."

Wilhelmine de Naarboveck came into view. She was one beam of

happiness and radiant beauty.

"Ah, Monsieur, I perceive you are not dancing," she said, playing the good
hostess to Juve. "Will you not allow me to introduce you to some charming
girls?"

"This is not the time," thought Juve: "and there is my age to be considered."

Making an evasive reply, Juve beat a retreat in good order, and followed
Colonel Hofferman, who was talking to de Naarboveck.

"The work of the Second Bureau," declared that officer.

Juve heard no more--Monsieur Lépine confronted him. The chief

commissioner of police was plucking at his pointed beard with nervous
fingers.

Drawing Juve aside, he asked:

"Juve, what is Headquarters thinking about?"

"I do not know, Monsieur."

"What! There is a visitor here, unnoticed.... Are you also ignorant of the
fact that the Baron de Naarboveck receives a king here to-night?"

"Oh, as to that, I know it--Frederick Christian II."

Monsieur Lépine was incensed at the detective's calm.

"You know it! You know it!" he grumbled, "and the administration knows
nothing about!... Well, since you know so much, what is he doing here your
CHAPTER PAGE 384

king?"

"He comes to see me."

"Juve, you are mad!"

"No, Monsieur, But."...

Juve cut short the conversation, approached the king, and said a few words
to him in a low voice.

The chief commissioner of police was surprised beyond words when he

saw the king listening attentively to what Juve had to say, then nod
acquiescence, leave the ballroom and enter the gallery on to which several
rooms opened, including the library at the far end.

Juve glanced discreetly at his watch. He was startled. His expression

altered. It grew severe, determined. He glanced about him, discovered de
Naarboveck not far off, and went up to him.

"Monsieur de Naarboveck," he said: "shall we have a few minutes' talk?

Not here--somewhere else.... Should we say?"...

"In my library?" proposed de Naarboveck, who looked the detective up and

down--a measuring glance, cold, contemptuous. Their glances crossed,
hard, menacing.

"You are set on it, Monsieur?" De Naarboveck's tone was irony incarnate....
"And what may I ask is your aim in forcing this conversation, Monsieur?"

Juve's reply came, distinct, determined:

"Unmask Fantômas!"

"That shall be as you like," was the diplomat's reply.

CHAPTER PAGE 385

In the library, unusually full of furniture, Juve and de Naarboveck met for
their duel of words and wits.

They were by themselves. Juve had made the Baron pass into the room
before him. He knew there was but one exit--the door. If in order to get
clear away, de Naarboveck meant to employ force or trickery, he would
first have to remove Juve from the door, before which he had stationed
himself.

Juve did not budge.

Certainly there was the window at the other end of the room looking on to
the Esplanade des Invalides. Curtains were drawn across the window, but
Juve did not fear to see his adversary escape in that direction: he knew--and
he alone knew it--that between this window and the curtains there was an
obstacle--someone."...

"Do you remember, Monsieur de Naarboveck, that evening when the police
came here to arrest Vagualame?"

"Yes," replied de Naarboveck with his ironic smile: "and it was you,
Monsieur Juve, who got yourself arrested in that disguise!"

"That is a fact." Juve's admission was matter-of-fact. "Do you recall a

certain conversation, Monsieur de Naarboveck, between detective Juve and
the real Vagualame at Jérôme Fandor's flat?"

"No," declared the Baron: "and for the very good reason that the
conversation--you have just said so--was a dialogue between two persons:
Juve and Vagualame."

"Nevertheless, this Vagualame was none other than Fantômas!"

"What then?" De Naarboveck was smiling.

Juve, after a short silence, burnt his ships.

CHAPTER PAGE 386

"Naarboveck!" he cried: "It is useless to double like that! Vagualame is

Fantômas: Vagualame is you, yourself: Fantômas is you, yourself.... We
know it. We have identified you; and to-morrow the anthropometric test
will prove in the eyes of the world what to-day is the conviction of a certain
few only.

"This long time past you have known yourself pursued, tracked: you have
noted that the ring has been drawn closer, tighter each day: so, playing your
last trump card, attempting even the impossible, you have planned this
abominable comedy, which consists in duping a noble king and getting
yourself nominated as his ambassador, that you might take advantage of
diplomatic inviolability--an advantage, let me tell you, you are in desperate
need of!... Quite a good idea! Was it not?"

During Juve's virulent apostrophe de Naarboveck had maintained an ironic

self-possession.

"You confess, then?"

"And suppose it were so?... No doubt, Monsieur Juve, you intended to

denounce me, to prove that the Baron de Naarboveck is none other than
Fantômas.... Well, it pleases me to admit your cleverness. I will even go as
far as allow that you may quite well obtain authorisation to arrest me--in a
few days' time."

"Not in a few days' time," interrupted Juve: "but now at once!"

"Pardon," objected de Naarboveck, cool, collected, while Juve had

difficulty in containing himself: "Pardon, but the credentials I possess are
authentic, and no one in this world can deprive me of my function, of my
official position, and what pertains to it."

"Yes!" Juve flung the word at de Naarboveck as though it were a stone

from a sling.

De Naarboveck's gesture might mean anything:

CHAPTER PAGE 387

"Who?"...

Juve hurled another two stones in the shape of words.

"The king!"

De Naarboveck's nod was malicious.

"Frederick Christian alone can take from me my style and title of

ambassador.... Let him come and do it!"

Juve lifted a finger slowly towards the far end of the library, in the direction
of the window.

De Naarboveck, who had followed this movement mechanically, could not

restrain a cry of stupefaction, a cry of anguish.

The window curtain had just been gradually drawn apart: slowly before the
miscreant's eyes appeared the majestic form of King Frederick Christian II,
King of Hesse-Weimar.

The king was livid with suppressed rage.

Juve approached him, his eyes on de Naarboveck. The king took a large
envelope from an inner pocket and handed it to Juve.

"I am the victim of this monster's imposture, but I know how to recognise
my mistakes and rectify them.... Monsieur Juve, here is the decree you
asked me for, annulling the nomination of--Baron de Naarboveck."

During this brief scene, Naarboveck-Fantômas had gradually backed

towards a corner of the room, his face was pallid and drawn: he had the
look of a trapped beast of prey. But at the king's last words
Naarboveck-Fantômas drew himself up to a semblance of stateliness. He
also took from an inner pocket a document. He held it out to the king: his
lips were curved in a smile of bitter irony.
CHAPTER PAGE 388

"Sire," he said: "I, in my turn, hand you this! It is the plan stolen from
Captain Brocq--the mobilisation plan for the whole French army--a plan
your emperor."...

"Enough, Monsieur!" shouted the king.

The paper fell to the ground.

Juve bent quickly and picked up the document.

The king, as though to anticipate the suspicion which might be put into
words, said:

"Juve, this plan belongs to your country. Never have we wished."...

The eyes of Juve met those of the king in a deep, questioning glance. A
question was asked and answered then. But five seconds in time had
passed. Juve's glance went back to Naarboveck-Fantômas.... The bandit had
disappeared!

Juve kept his head.

"Michel!" he called: "Michel!"

Michel entered the library on the instant. He had been posted in the gallery
close by. Behind him appeared several gentlemen in evening dress: they
were detectives despatched on special duty from Headquarters.

"Fantômas is there, Michel," Juve cried: "concealed, but not escaped....

There may be some hiding-place in these walls--we must sound them--but
no passage, no exit: I am sure of that. Let us carry out these pieces of
furniture, which form a veritable barricade."

Some moments passed, tense with expectancy. At Juve's earnest request the
king had left the room. He had fulfilled his promise and had best begone.
Juve and Michel were guarding the door. The situation was dangerous, and
CHAPTER PAGE 389

well the policemen knew it! They had come to grips with a formidable
criminal, to whom nothing was sacred, who would stick at nothing!
Protected by some piece of furniture, he could take aim at his leisure, shoot
his opponents through the heart, and could go on shooting till he had
emptied his revolver.

"Start in!" cried Juve.

With six men to aid him, Juve began a systematic turn-out of the library,
moving the furniture piece by piece, leaving no hole, no corner unsearched.

No Fantômas!

Yet Juve felt confident, felt sure he held the miscreant in the hollow of his
policeman's hand: the library contained no trap-door, no secret door, no
sliding panel covering his retreat: the floor had no opening in it: the ceiling
was not movable.

"Take these pieces of furniture into the gallery," commanded Juve: "every
one of them! Fantômas is not a being without weight and substance,
though, for the moment, he is invisible. He cannot have left the room;
therefore he must be in it!"

It was no easy task to move quickly, noiselessly, these heavy pieces of

furniture into the gallery by way of the narrow library door. Soon they had
carried out a comfortable leather arm-chair of unusual proportions, four
other chairs, a stand, and various smaller pieces of substantial make.

And all the while, dancers whirled on in the ball-rooms, seductive strains of
music were wafted on the air, mingled with the hum of joyous talk and gay
laughter; yet in the background were these dark happenings with tragedy
ahead!

Wilhelmine de Naarboveck appeared in the doorway, staring at the disorder

organised by Juve.... Juve paused: speech failed him at sight of her.
CHAPTER PAGE 390

"Monsieur Juve," said she, in quite ordinary tones: "I am so glad I have
found you! The Baron de Naarboveck has sent me to you."...

"Who sent you, did you say, Mademoiselle?"

Juve started forward.

"The Baron de Naarboveck asks for me?... Where? Since when?"

"Why Monsieur Juve, I have just this moment left him at the entrance to the
ball-rooms. He had just come out of here!... But why are you putting all this
furniture in the gallery?"

"What of the Baron, Mademoiselle?" cried Juve, on tenterhooks.

"Ah, yes! The Baron said to me: 'Wilhelmine, I feel a little tired, and am
going up to my room for a few minutes; but go to Monsieur Juve, and tell
him.'"...

Not waiting to hear more, Juve rushed out to the gallery, but only to stop
dead.... He had run up against a large, an unusually large, arm-chair
standing apart. Thus isolated, it was remarkable. Juve paused to examine it.
This arm-chair was astonishing, extraordinary! Yes--it opened in the
middle--a kind of a double chair! Why--the interior could hold a man who
knew how to pack himself in! It had a false bottom with a spring! One in
hiding could escape that way!... Once closed on the person concealed
within, the chair looked empty. A most ingenious hide-hole! Juve now
knew the answer to the riddle of the bandit's disappearance. Within an ace
of arrest, he had seized the chance offered by Juve's interchange of glances
with the king, and with an acrobat's agility had slipped inside this chair! No
sooner was the chair abandoned in the gallery than de
Naarboveck-Fantômas had slipped out and away. When leaving his
magnificent house forever, and all the securities and privileges of his
position, he had sent Wilhelmine to announce his escape to Juve! Could
cynicism--could mordant irony go further?
CHAPTER PAGE 391

Juve felt crushed. It was too, too much.

"What ails you, Juve?" asked a gentle voice beside him. It was Fandor,
who, knowing nothing of what had passed, but suspecting there was
mischief afoot, had come in search of Juve. Had he not seen the diplomat
whom he knew to be Fantômas, and Fantômas on the point of being
arrested, cross the ballroom rapidly and disappear in the crowd of dancers?

Juve could not find words for speech.

Great tears rolled down his cheeks, hollowed and lined with an immense
fatigue.

At last he gave low utterance to his feelings.

"Fantômas! I had got him!... And it was I who had that cursed chair taken
out of the library--I did it ... I!... It is thanks to me!"

Juve could not continue. He burst into tears in the arms of his devoted
friend....

Once again Juve had suffered shipwreck when coming into harbour! Once
again the bandit had escaped! Ah, decidedly Vagualame, Naarboveck,
Fantômas, were one!

Fantômas the evasive, the elusive, the shadowy Fantômas, genius of evil,
had flitted by them, had disappeared! Whither?...

Would Juve ever have his revenge?

The future alone would decide....

THE END

*****
CHAPTER PAGE 392

A NEST OF SPIES

FANTÔMAS DETECTIVE TALES

By Pierre Souvestre and Marcel Allain

*****

FANTÔMAS

The Adventures of Detective Juve in pursuit of a master in crime.

II

THE EXPLOITS OF JUVE

In this continuation Fantômas appears as the leader of a gang of Apaches,

and as a physician of standing. Juve tracks the criminal to his secret
hiding-place, but Fantômas escapes.

III

MESSENGERS OF EVIL

Filled with hair-raising incidents this tale is a fascinating recital of

remarkable happenings in the life of the master-criminal of Paris.

IV

A NEST OF SPIES

In this volume Fantômas is an ambassador for a foreign power engaged in

Paris in obtaining important military secrets for Germany. Detective Juve
unmasks him, but the criminal again escapes.
CHAPTER PAGE 393

*****

12mo. Cloth. $1.35 net per volume

*****

BRENTANO'S NEW YORK

*****

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